


she's the sweetest thing there is.

by alex28



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blackwater AU, F/M, Game of Thrones AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:25:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alex28/pseuds/alex28
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i originally started this yesterday but it was very late/early morning and i read it back the next day and realised i'd been so tired i'd make some stupid errors, so i'm aiming to fix that this time around and make this fic better. i haven't read all of the ASOIAF books (i'm currently only on book #1) but i have seen all 3 seasons of the HBO series Game of Thrones, so I am basing my story and the characters and plots etc on that. this may stray from canon so take note. i am following the story as best i can along with adding my own storyline to fit this fanfiction. as always, comments are greatly appreciated ~ please no hate but constructive criticism is always welcome. thank you, and enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i originally started this yesterday but it was very late/early morning and i read it back the next day and realised i'd been so tired i'd make some stupid errors, so i'm aiming to fix that this time around and make this fic better. i haven't read all of the ASOIAF books (i'm currently only on book #1) but i have seen all 3 seasons of the HBO series Game of Thrones, so I am basing my story and the characters and plots etc on that. this may stray from canon so take note. i am following the story as best i can along with adding my own storyline to fit this fanfiction. as always, comments are greatly appreciated ~ please no hate but constructive criticism is always welcome. thank you, and enjoy!

Sansa Stark was sat in her room, staring into her mirror as her maid brushed her long auburn hair. When it was finished, Sansa ran her fingers through it gently and sighed. It was so soft and shiny, and she loved how it burned in the daylight like bright red flames when the sun shone on it. “Which dress would you like to wear, my Lady?” her maid asked. Standing, Sansa looked at her choices: the emerald dress with golden leaves, the blue dress with silver-silk spun on the edge of the sleeves, a purple one with long drooping sleeves, and a pale grey coloured one, which reminded Sansa of her roots. “This one,” she said as she fingered the grey dress. “As Daughter of Winterfell, I feel it only right to represent my home, the North. The colours of this dress do such a fine job.”

“Very good, my Lady.” The servant helped her dress, and when Sansa had her gown on she felt more beautiful than ever. Her maid agreed. “You grow more beautiful each day, my Lady Sansa.”

Sansa Stark was the second legitimate child of Lord Eddard (Ned) Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark, who were the respected owners and protectors of Winterfell, up in the North of Westeros. Sansa had inherited her mother’s auburn hair and glittering sapphire eyes. Although still a child of only fourteen, she had the potential for great womanly beauty in the years ahead of her. Everyone in Winterfell called her the ‘Princess of the North’, and both her parents knew she was destined for a great betrothal. Their other children were Robb, the eldest boy, thick brown curls and a strong beard shadowing his jaw; Arya Stark, the second girl, a wild child if ever there was one; the boy, Bran, who loved nothing more than to climb and explore, and the final child, baby Rickon, a boy of four. The final boy, Jon Snow, a bastard in many eyes, was the illegitimate son of Ned Stark and some whore Ned had once shared a bed with for not even one full night. Catelyn had always and forever resented Jon Snow, treating him as an outcast, and Sansa had followed her mother’s suit, yet Arya and the Stark boys had treated him no different; as if he were truly their full blood brother.

When Sansa was properly ready, her maid handed her the grey furry cloak to wear atop her dress, and both the young lady and her maid left Sansa’s chambers and headed to the rest of her family. As they walked through the different parts of the castle to the main hall, where her father had called them all, carnage was the only thing to be seen. Cooks were triple-checking the wild boars and roast pheasants and salted hams and yellow potatoes were all properly cooked; Sansa smiled to herself as she walked past the kitchens and got a smell of her favourite things: sweet, sticky lemon cakes. The maids were fluffing the pillows that were already softer than a baby’s cheek, and the guards at the gate were on lookout, ready to raise the necessary alarms when needed. Of course every single person in the castle knew what the cause of all this madness was: King Robert Baratheon and his court were due to arrive at Winterfell today. An old childhood friend of her Lord father’s, he had come up to Winterfell from King’s Landing to discuss ‘important matters of the Crown’. No more had been said, no whispers, and everybody was just as eager to find out what the King had planned; none more so than Ned Stark himself. It had been many a year since he had last seen his friend, Robert, and he wondered how the years would have altered him. Not too much, he hoped.

The next thing Sansa knew, her father was leading everybody out into the courtyard. Her father arranged them all in line, from Robb to Sansa to Arya to Bran and to Rickon. Jon Snow had been placed in between Robb and Sansa. Catelyn hadn’t liked this, but on such a day as this she felt it best not to argue with her husband. She could tell he was already stressed enough, and she did not want to put extra grief on him.

Sansa didn’t need to be reminded to smile, and she stood, as pretty as a rose, tall and confident, beaming a smile that could launch a thousand ships across the seas. The same could not be said, however, for her little sister. Ever convinced her sister should have been born her brother, Sansa and Arya Stark were as different as night and day. While Sansa often dreamt of handsome princes and fair maidens and true love, Arya fought and got into trouble and was anything but ladylike. While Sansa had her sewing lessons from their Septa, a kindly old woman, Arya would constantly mutter under her breath, and after listening hard, Sansa found her sister had been muttering battle tactics, deciding with herself which best way to attack her brothers, playfully of course.

Their mother came round, however, quickly, and gave Arya a stern look. She needed no further telling. Everyone knew this was a special day.

Soon enough, the banners were raised, the drums and trumpets sounded, and Winterfell braced itself for the arrival of the King. A great crowd had turned up to honour this royal visit, and there was a silent buzz from the people. The Starks were all prepared, standing in line, doing their duty. Sansa could feel her heart pounding. This was all so exciting. She had heard some maids talking yesterday evening of the young Prince Joffrey, how he was handsome. Sansa had spent the rest of that day dreaming about him, wondering if she would one day be wed to him, imagining the songs he’d sing to her.

With a bang, the gates opened and in rode the royal party. Great horses with great men on their backs; first came a few men wearing helmets and Gold Cloaks: members of the Kings Guard. Sansa spotted her sister eyeing up their magnificent gold-plated swords, sheathed in wet looking leather scabbards. She sighed to herself as she looked up to see him. Wearing robes and a cloak of deep red velvet, entered the Prince Joffrey, heir to the Iron Throne of Westeros. He truly was as handsome as any story she’d ever heard, with brilliant golden hair and a smile that took her breath from her. He looked at her directly as he entered the yard. Others came in, a few more knights, and then the Queen, Cersei Lannister, and her younger children Myrcella and Tommen, and her twin, Jaime. With a final grand fanfare and two guards at his flanks, King Robert Baratheon entered the courtyard of Winterfell. He was a fat man, Sansa noticed, with a terrible gut and a grizzly beard, red cheeks and rather short of height.

Once down from his horse, which was managed with some difficulty, he strode over to Ned and his line of Stark’s, and they all bowed respectfully. Everyone else from the Winterfell crowd bowed too, standing again only once the King had gestured to do so, and only after the Starks.

Sansa’s father and the King stared each other out for a few long seconds, and then the King smiled, and Sansa saw her father smile too, wide and true. She had not seen him smile like that for an age.

The King ordered Ned to show him down to the crypt, so he could pay his respects, and after silencing his Queen, who gathered her two youngest children and stormed off, they left the rest of the party to get unpacked and settled in.

 

It took not two hours for the King to tell Ned Stark the reason for his visit. To be the Hand of the King was to become a very high member of the court of Westeros, but the position was said to be cursed, as the previous Hand had suffered a most peculiar and tragic death. King Robert said that no other man but his old friend Eddard Stark was fit for such a position, and after reminding Ned of their days as boys and as men when they won the Iron Throne, Ned was considering it. The King had also suggested that he tie the houses of Stark and Baratheon together through a marriage – the marriage of his son, Joffrey, and Ned’s eldest daughter, Sansa. When Ned told Catelyn who told Sansa, Sansa was overjoyed. “Oh, mother, this is wonderful!” she beamed. “Finally, I shall have a true reason to sing my songs. Sing as loud as a bird can chirp with its beak. I shall be married to my beloved Joffrey, and I shall be Queen and give him sons and heirs.”

Sansa, as naïve as she was sweet, did not see the fear that hid behind her mother’s eyes.

“If your father were to take this position,” Catelyn said, trying not to let her tears fall, “he would have to leave home. As would you.”

“Then I would only be doing as my mother did,” Sansa said kindly. “You left Riverrun when you married father, and you have been blessed with a good husband. And beautiful children.”

Catelyn smirked, unable to help herself. Her daughter had been true in that respect. Her children, and over time even her husband, were her world. All she wanted for her children was for them to be happy.

In what seemed like no time at all, the feast had begun. The night was wonderful, and everybody laughed and ate and drank – especially the King. Sansa noticed many people tried to please the King with their breathing: when he laughed, they laughed. When he drank, they drank. When he ate, they ate, unless they offered him their serving, some of which the King greedily took. Taking her focus away from the father and to the son, Sansa smiled as she looked at the Prince. He was as different from his King father as the sun was from the moon. Joffrey glanced over at Sansa and smiled, and suddenly she saw the Prince nudge the shadow that had been sat by his right. Sansa saw Joffrey’s lips move, and the shadow became light, and finally that light silhouette became a person. Wearing black armour and a sword on his back, this figure was huge. Sat down next to Joffrey, Sansa could tell this person, whoever he was, was very tall and muscled like an ox. Sansa saw slate-black eyes and a gaunt face, complete with high cheekbones and rough black stubble. His hair was black, like his eyes, and thin and long. Sansa noticed it was brushed towards the right side of his face. Rather odd, she thought, but she decided it must be a fashion of men from the South. Sansa wondered who this person was. Definitely not a noble, but yet he was seated next to the Prince. He must have been important. He never glanced at her fully, obeying only to Joffrey’s command of: “Look, Dog, do you see her? That’s the bitch father is making me marry. She’ll do, I suppose.” The man looked at the Stark girl once, under orders, then went back to his cup of wine. He seemed rather fond of it, Sansa thought.

Sansa, unlike the man who had no interest in her, for some reason could not take her eyes away from him. She made it look as if she was gazing lovingly at Joffrey, which she had been doing originally, but something about this stranger captivated her.

Septa Mordane broke her gaze and distracted her by asking her if she was enjoying the evening, and as she politely responded, the rest of the night passed by and Sansa forgot all about the strange man. The welcoming feast continued well into the night, and Sansa guessed from the King’s appetite well into the morning, but Sansa soon grew tired, so was escorted back to her chambers, where she undressed and got into bed.

 * * * * 

The next day was over as soon as it had begun, and Sansa found herself packed, all her pretty dresses and soft slippers and hairbrushes in her trunk. She had been told that her father had accepted the position of Hand of the King, and as Sansa were to wed Joffrey, unofficially still, she was expected to go down South to King’s Landing for the announcement. Ned had also taken Arya, who wasn’t too happy: if she’d have had her way, she would have gone with her brother, Jon Snow, to take the Black and become a member of the Night’s Watch.

The only thing that had appeased Arya was that their father had allowed them to both brink their pet direwolves.

The journey had been rather long, yet not too uncomfortable, and during the journey Sansa had hummed songs to herself, the tunes of old stories her Septa had told her many a time. When they eventually got to King’s Landing, Ned and his two daughters were escorted to their rooms: Ned, as Hand, had his own chamber, and Sansa and Arya shared another, at the request of their father. Neither sister were pleased about this, but still they were respectful, thanking those responsible for their courtesies.

The King summoned Ned away almost instantly, to discuss matters of the Crown, and Arya had told Sansa she wasn’t allowed in the room. Sansa would have normally been suspicious, but the excitement of being in the Capital, in King’s Landing, full of wonderful Southern things to discover and explore. “Fine,” Sansa smiled. “I’m going for a walk anyway.”

“Okay!” Arya huffed. “Go off and walk. I’m busy!” Arya had shut the door in her sister’s face before she could blink. Sansa heard the sound of metal, but knew with her sister it could have been _anything_. She shook her head, took a deep breath, allowing this feeling of excitement and uncertainty and possibility to overwhelm her, and then she set off, taking Lady with her.

Her father had told her not to wander off too far, and Sansa stayed true to her promise. Walking down near where some tents were pitched and the travelling wagons were still being unloaded from the journey back from Winterfell, Sansa noticed a group of girls, all giggling at her.

 

Sansa felt upset. She had been sweet enough to think people would automatically like her and want to be her friends. She had many friends back in Winterfell, but here the girls wouldn’t even look at her unless it was to sneer. She found herself wishing she had stayed in her room, ignoring Arya. Her sister would have probably teased her about something, possibly Joffrey or her flowery silk dresses, as was the norm, but at least she wouldn’t be ignored. Feeling tears prick her eyes, she quickly blinked them away. She didn’t want to make it obvious to the three girls that she was upset, so she walked off, trying not to cry. She walked a few more minutes down the same path, where the trees grew higher and thicker, and Sansa heard metal and wood clanging together, the sound of men's grunts and of a few people cheering. She supposed some form of battle training was taking place, and she was slightly interested. As she spun around to walk towards the arena, which she realised was in the opposite direction, she bumped into somebody. "Oh, my apologies, ser," she muttered quickly. Sansa heard low, heavy breathing and forced her eyes up. The man standing, staring, before her was tall, and wearing iron-grey chainmail over brown boiled leather. Almost near-bald, with blank eyes and a hollowed out face, this man terrified Sansa. A magnificent sword was on his back, and Sansa guessed it was almost as tall as she was. Thinking he hadn’t heard her apology the first time, Sansa tried again. “I am sorry, ser. I didn’t mean to –”

“I wouldn’t bother if I were you, girl,” came a voice from behind her. The voice was deep, low and gruff, almost like a bark. It made Sansa jump. Turning round again, she found herself in the presence of yet another man who scared her. This man was tall, taller than the first one. With long black hair brushed to one side, Sansa suddenly realised this was the man who she had seen next to Joffrey at the welcoming feast. As she looked up into the slate-black eyes, she felt her heart did a tiny flip, and it shocked her.

“Did I frighten you so much girl? Or is it him there making you shake?” When Sansa didn’t reply, the second man continued, “He frightens me, too.”

Sansa frowned to herself quickly, wondering how in all the Seven Kingdoms this bald, silent man frightened a big beast of a man such as him. Her frown vanished as soon as it had arrived.

She turned back to look at the first man, and he hadn’t taken his eyes off Sansa since she’d bumped into him. Sansa didn’t like the way he was looking at her, as if she was a deer and he the lion.

With great courage, Sansa spoke. “I’m sorry if I offended you, ser.” Still the man gave no response. With one final look of utter contempt, the man skulked off, much to Sansa’s relief. She noticed the second man watching him particularly close, ensuring he was going for good. When he had finally disappeared, Sansa stood to face the second man. Her eyes scanned his face and without meaning to, her eyes darted to the side of his face his hair was covering, and she let out a silent gasp. The man’s face was covered in burn scars. Sansa felt a sudden drop in her stomach as she realised why he had his hair on that side of his face. “Why won’t he speak to me?” Sansa tried to hide the fear in her voice. She tried not to stare at his face – at the burned side – but she couldn’t help herself. She didn’t want to be rude, but she couldn’t take her eyes away. “He hasn’t been very talkative these last twenty years. Since the Mad King had his tongue ripped out with hot pincers.” Sansa flinched, and so did the man. Sansa quickly mistook his action to be a result of her staring, and so she hurriedly tried to apologise. “Ser, I didn’t mean to –”

“Ah, there she is! My Lady!” Sansa’s heart skipped a beat as she turned to see Joffrey approach them. She was sure she could have heard the man she had just been talking to sigh heavily, but she thought no more on it.

“Speaks stern well with a sword though,” he said. Sansa couldn’t hide her smile if she tried. She saw the man roll his eyes, although she was sure it had gone unnoticed by the Prince. “Ser Ilyn Payne. ‘The King’s Justice’.” Sansa was unsure of this term, and so Joffrey clarified; “The Royal Executioner.” Sansa felt her face fall at this. All of a sudden, Wintefell, her mother, brothers and the life she had known seemed as far away as ever. Seeing his future-bride’s face, Joffrey stroked her face and asked, “What is it, sweet Lady?” Before giving Sansa time to reply, he continued; “Does The Hound frighten you? Away with you, _dog_ , you’re scaring my Lady.” Sansa didn’t look around, but from Joffrey’s eyes, The Hound bowed and took his leave without uttering a syllable. “Don’t like to see you upset… Sun’s finally shining. Come, walk with me.” Sansa smiled, and after telling Lady to stay where she was, she walked off with her Prince.

 

He had some wine in a flask and offered it to Sansa as they walked. The sun was, as Joffrey had noted, finally shining. It beamed down onto the ground and seemed to make the grass dance and the trees glisten. Sansa was feeling elated, the wine helping somewhat. She had dreamed of meeting a Prince like Joffrey her entire life, and this day had been truly wonderful. Apart from when she had ran into those two terrifying men. Ser Ilyn Payne, a man who was paid to end people’s lives for a living, and the other man. The Hound, Joffrey had called him. He had scared her more than the executioner. There was just something about him that chilled Sansa to the bone. He truly, truly scared her. Sansa couldn’t pick a specific reason why, as he had done her no harm, but he made her shiver. Even now, thinking about him, Sansa had got the shakes. “Are you cold, my Lady?” Joffrey asked. “Here.” He removed his cloak and placed it around her shoulders. Although Sansa hadn’t been cold, she politely smiled and thanked the Prince.

As they walked on, further down near the river, Sansa couldn’t get The Hound out of her head. “You seem troubled, my Lady,” Joffrey said.

“No, my Prince,” Sansa replied. She wasn’t going to say anything, and then, “I was just wondering about The Hound. Who is he?”

“The dog? Oh, he’s my Sworn Shield. He protects the Crown Prince of Westeros.”

Sansa nodded, and Joffrey didn’t press the matter.

Everything that happened next happened so fast, Sansa could scarcely believe her eyes.

They turned the corner of the river and found Arya and some red-haired boy playing with wooden sticks. Joffrey had challenged the boy to a duel, and had sliced his cheek. At this, Arya had lunged and hit the Prince with her wooden stick, causing him to flip into a mad rage, swinging for her with his own steel sword. Arya’s friend ran away as fast as he could. As Joffrey shouted obscenities at the top of his voice, Sansa cried and begged everyone to stop. Nobody listened. “Please, my Prince, I beg you. Arya, please, stop. Stop it both of you! You’re spoiling everything!”

From out of nowhere, Arya’s direwolf, Nymeria, appeared and leapt onto Joffrey, sinking her teeth into his arm. Arya quickly pulled Nymeria away, at the request of her sister, and picked up Joffrey’s sword and threw it into the river. Her and the direwolf sprinted off. Joffrey, the future King, was on the floor, cowering and crying, his arm spurting with blood. Sansa at once knelt down beside him, and went to stroke his soft blonde hair. “My poor prince, look what they did to you! Stay here, I’ll go back and get help.” With a violent shove, Joffrey pushed her away.

“Then go! And don’t touch me!” he snarled.

Sansa’s memory of what happened next were hazy. Her sister ran away, the direwolf was nowhere to be seen. Sansa was called before the King and Queen. Joffrey had span the story so that Arya had attacked Joffrey herself. The King Robert had been fair in the end, and had decided that children fight, even royal born children, and went to take no further action than a stern eye to all. The Queen, Cersei, however had other ideas of how to deal with things. In the end, a direwolves life had to be taken in penance for Joffrey’s injuries. As Nymeria was nowhere to be found, it was poor pretty Lady who paid the price.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

For weeks, Sansa had ignored her sister completely. She blamed Arya for getting Lady killed. Joffrey looked at Sansa with disgust, and any possible signs of love that were there at the beginning had vanished completely. Whenever they were to appear at royal events and in court, Joffrey held his arm for her and she took it. He'd smile at her, all loving and polite, and Sansa had, for the first few occasions at least, thought Joffrey had forgiven her, that he loved her again. Sadly, this was not to be the case. Whenever the formalities were finished with, Joffrey would snap his arm away from Sansa and would give her a look made of pure evil and hatred. It took all of Sansa's might not to cry in front of everybody. Her father, the Hand of the King Lord Eddard Stark, had stood by and said nothing regarding the matter of the direwolves and Joffrey’s ‘attack’. When finally the solution was to murder poor innocent Lady, Ned had done the deed himself. For this Sansa would never forgive him. He received the same silent treatment as his younger daughter.

Sansa was walking in the throne room this one day, her Septa with her, and they were talking Sansa’s future duties as Queen. “Someday your husband will sit there. You shall sit by his side, and one day not too far away you shall produce him with his sons.”

“What if I have daughters?”

“You will hopefully have both, and plenty of each,” Septa Mordane had replied.

“But what if I only have girls?”

“Then the throne would go to the next in line, Prince Tommen.”

“And then everyone would hate me. I’d be the woman who couldn’t produce an heir. Pathetic.”

“No, sweet girl,” Septa Mordane said softly. “Nobody could ever hate you.”

“Joffrey does.”

“He does not, my Lady, he –”

“He hates me.”

Sansa noticed the old woman open her mouth to say something further, but closing her mouth she decided against it. And then, “Sansa, I pray you would speak with your father. Make peace. A direwolf is no pet, especially for a Lady such as yourself, and –”

“Shut up,” Sansa said cruelly. “And as for my father, I don’t want to ever speak to him again.”

 

That afternoon, a tournament was held. It was officially called The Hand’s Tournament, to celebrate Ned’s new title. The Hand himself, however, hadn’t taken much pleasure in any such business, and so himself referred to it as The King’s Tournament. Despite all the bad feelings Sansa had been dealing with, she found herself eager to go and watch. The sun was shining and the crowds were gathered, a mixture of royals and nobility, of guards and members of the court and people from the smaller villages.

Sansa had sat down in one of the stalls facing the jousting arena, and she was sat with her Septa – and to her disgust, Arya. She saw her Prince, Joffrey, who looked miserable. She felt that odd familiar flip of her stomach as she saw The Hound, standing right beside Joffrey, staring into space but concentrating harder than anyone. The King and Queen were sat together, raised higher than everyone else, and their children Tommen and Myrcella were also seated. A few other men in gold cloaks were surrounding the royal family. Joffrey looked across and over at Sansa, who gave him a sweet smile, hoping it would be returned. She was greeted with a scowl, and then Joffrey looked away. Sansa felt her heart drop.

A small man, who she discovered was Lord Baelish, came and sat beside her. He informed Sansa and Arya that he had known their mother since boyhood. Arya opened her mouth to speak, but fell silent when the King stumbled to his feet, spilling his cup of wine onto the floor. “Seven hells, is this thing starting now or what? If I wait much longer I’ll piss myself!” Sansa heard a few giggles from the crowd, and noticed the King’s outburst had earned him a look of disgust from his Queen, who stood up, every so gracefully, and walked off, taking her two youngest children with her. The King didn’t seem to notice them leave.

All of a sudden, a sound of heavy hooves galloping down the arena had everyone’s attention. A giant black horse with a similar sized man on its back came striding down, halting in front of the King.

“Who in all the Seven Kingdoms is that?” Sansa asked, shocked that such a man could exist.

“Known as ‘The Mountain’,” Lord Baelish replied, leaning in a bit too close for Sansa’s liking. “The Hound’s older brother. Gregor Clegane. His opponent is Ser Hugh of the Vale; the old Hand of the King’s ex-squire.”

Sansa looked at Ser Hugh, who seemed like an insect compared to his opponent. As the two rode to either ends of the jousting arena, the King bellowed for them to start. The crowd grew louder and louder and suddenly the two men were riding towards each other at speed. It took a few short attempts for The Mountain to not only un-horse Ser Hugh, but to drive a broken part of his lance right through his throat, killing him almost instantly. Sansa had screamed, covered her eyes and let a few tears fall down her face. “I imagine this isn’t what you were expecting to see, Sansa,” Lord Baelish whispered. "Has anyone ever told you the story of The Mountain and The Hound? Lovely little tale of brotherly love… The Hound was just a pup, six years old maybe. Gregor, a few years older, already a big lad, already getting a bit of a reputation. Some lucky boys just born with a talent for violence. One evening, Gregor found his little brother playing with a toy by the fire, Gregor’s toy… A wooden knight. Gregor never said a word, he just grabbed his brother by the scruff of his neck and shoved his face into the burning coals. Held him there, while the boy screamed, while his face melted.”

Sansa couldn’t believe what she had been told. How horrific. Quickly darting her eyes over to where he was stood, she looked at The Hound. She saw his hair, still brushed to the right, an attempt to cover the scars. Hot tears pricked her eyes again as she now knew the history. His eyes snapped hers like a bolt of lightning, and she let out a little gasp before looking away, staring hard at the floor. Her cheeks had flushed, and she heard Arya snigger. “There aren’t very many people who know that story.”

“I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

“No, please don’t. If the Hound so much as heard you mention it, I’m afraid all the knights in King’s Landing wouldn’t be able to save you.” At these words, Sansa gulped.

 

The next day the tournament continued, with the winner staying on to battle the next contenders. Today, a beautiful young knight captured Sansa’s attention. Ser Loras Tyrell was nearly as perfect as the pictures of princes in the books Sansa used to love reading. With long blonde hair that bounced near his shoulders, handsome silver armour and a strong, sharp face, he was beautiful. ‘The Knight of Flowers’ he was known as.

Sansa had made peace with her father, who was sat by her side today. As Ser Loras presented Sansa with a red rose, she noticed her father pull a face. He bowed before his King, and then rode to his side of the joust, ready to face The Mountain.

Seeing how brutal he had been yesterday, Sansa gripped her father’s arm. “Don’t let him hurt Ser Loras! I can’t watch!”

Through her fingers, Sansa watched with baited breath. This time, however, it was the Mountain who was un-horsed. A great roar erupted from the crowds, and as Ser Loras bowed and smiled at the people, The Mountain had yelled for his sword to be brought to him. Before anyone realised what was happening, Gregor Clegane had beheaded his own horse. There were cries and sobs from the crowd, all cheering had ceased. Gregor swung his sword again, this time aiming for Ser Loras. Without meaning to, Sansa had cried out. “No!”

Gregor had Ser Loras on the floor, and was about to swing a fatal blow when a figure jumped down from the raised platform. An instant later Sansa saw it was The Hound. He looked fiercer than Sansa had ever seen him. “LEAVE HIM BE!” he roared, meeting Gregor’s steel with his own.

The two brothers went at each other for a few seconds, both narrowly missing each other with every swing and blow. As Gregor’s sword just scraped by the side of The Hound’s right cheek, Sansa gulped and felt her stomach drop. She found herself not wanting The Hound to be hurt. The thought of him being hurt had made her upset.

“STOP THIS MADNESS IN THE NAME OF THE KING!”

The Hound obediently dropped to his knees, leaning on his sword. His brother, however, ignored the King and snarled into the crowd, storming off.

Ser Loras came running over to the Hound, smiling. “I owe you my life, ser!”

“I’m no ‘ser’,” Sandor had snarled, despising the very word. Ignoring him, Ser Loras grabbed his hand and raised it in victory. To this the crowd had cheered once more, none louder or more truer than Sansa. She got to her feet and felt herself beaming.

Sandor glanced up quickly, coincidentally being in her line of vision, and he stole one look at her before looking back into the general crowd area.

 

 

 

 

Weeks passed, and Sansa’s life began to unravel. Her father had been away on visits, so she spent very little time with him. Her days mainly consisted of lessons from her Septa, or little chats with the Queen that always made her feel very uncomfortable. She often asked Sansa if she had bled yet, which Sansa hadn’t, and then the Queen would make sly comments about her dress sense, or how different she was from herself. Sansa remained polite, regardless, which seemed to only irritate Cersei further.

Arya was still annoying. Joffrey was still cold and distant, yet kind to her when the occasion called for it. In an attempt to make him love her again, she adopted the hairstyles she had seen the girls wear that day she had bumped into Ser Ilyn Payne and the Hound.

Sansa missed her mother, and she missed Winterfell, and she missed Lady. Joffrey had turned on her, and he wasn’t the Prince of her dreams like she thought he would be. Yet she was still to be his Queen, so she continued to love him hopelessly. Whenever they were together, the Hound was also there. He never spoke one word to Sansa, he just constantly looked. Sansa could feel his eyes on her, burning into her. It made her feel weird. He made her feel weird.

A month had now passed since the Hand’s Tournament, and Sansa was having a sewing lesson from Septa Mordane. She was trying to make smalltalk, but failing miserably. Sansa prayed for something to happen to save her from this boredom. The door swung open, and in strode Joffrey, alone, and smiling.

Septa Mordane bowed at once, and Sansa’s face, despite everything, broke into a wide smile. She stood and he walked over to her. “My Prince.”

“My Lady.” His tone was softer than it had been in months. “I fear I have behaved monstrously… With your permission?” He produced a beautiful golden necklace. Sansa turned round and let her Prince fasten it for her.

“It’s beautiful, thank you my Prince.”

“Well as you’re going to be Queen someday, it seems fitting you should look the part. Will you forgive me, for my rudeness?”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“You’re my Lady. One day we’ll be married in the throne room. Lords and Ladies from all over the Seven Kingdoms will come. From the North to the South; and you will be Queen of all of them. I’ll never disrespect you again. I’ll never be cruel to you again. Do you understand me?” Sansa nodded. “You’re m Lady, now. From this day, until my last day.” Joffrey stoked her face gently and looked deep into her eyes. Sansa felt butterflies reappear, and he kissed her lips softly.

That night, while both Arya and Sansa were in their chamber, their father came to visit and to bring them some bad news.

“Father, you can’t! Joffrey and I are getting on so well again. Father I won’t go back!”

“No, father!” Arya chimed. “My dancing master says I need more practice!”

“I want you both back in Winterfell for your own safety.”

“I can’t go!” Sansa exclaimed. “I’m supposed to marry Prince Joffrey and be his Queen and give him beautiful blonde-haired children.”

Sansa had been too upset to notice, but her comment had just confirmed the thought that her father had been investigating ever since they had come to this godforsaken city.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i know the past 3 chapters have been like the tv series, but i wanted to get a storyline so i can spin my own from it. the next chapters now will be more about sansa and sandor and how their 'relationship' first begins, and then develops. and i promise, the E rating will happen, but later on. worth the wait i promise you.... don't forget to comment/kudos if it please you! x

Within two days, the world had changed once again. King Robert had been on a hunt with some men when he had been attacked by a wild boar. Sadly, the King had died from his wounds. Before doing so, he had named Ned Stark as Protector of the Realm. Sansa’s father had discovered some shocking truth: Cersei and her twin Jaime were incest, and all three of the Baratheon children (Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen) were in fact Lannister children. This meant that Joffrey had no legitimate claim to the Iron Throne. For this, Cersei had named it treason, and, as Queen Regent, had him imprisoned.

Nothing could have prepared Sansa for what happened next.

Unaware of the fighting that was going on in the throne room, Sansa was walking with her Septa when they heard steel upon steel, men’s dying cries and grunts. Sensing danger, Septa Mordane ordered Sansa to go back to her chamber. “Lock the door and do not open it for anyone you do not know.”

“What is it? What’s happening?”

“Sansa, please, just do as I ask!”

Nodding, terrified, Sansa began to run back to her chamber. She was moments away from safety, one more corner and she would be there. As she ran, she saw the Hound walk past. He didn’t see her right away, but her gasp of terror gave her away. He stopped, turned, and stalked towards her. With a low laugh and a twisted smile on his face, he got closer and closer. Sansa had frozen. Finally finding her voice, she said, “Stay away from me. I’ll tell my father… I’ll tell the _Queen_.” She had hoped she sounded unafraid, but the Hound’s laugh told her otherwise. “Who do you think sent me?”

Sansa stepped back, trying to escape, but a large hand came down onto her shoulder like an iron vice, restricting her.

Sansa was brought before the Queen and a few council members, including Grand Maester Pycelle, Lord Varys and Lord Baelish. They spoke to her about her father being a traitor, denying Joffrey his natural birth right. Cersei had said she couldn’t possibly allow the daughter of a traitor to marry her son. The men of the party spoke of how Sansa was still sweet, yet questioned how she would be in the future. In the end, Sansa had to write a letter to both her brother Robb and her mother Catelyn asking them to swear fealty to Joffrey.

A few days later, Arya, who had gone missing, was still nowhere to be seen. Joffrey had called a meeting, ordering each member of court to swear an oath of loyalty to him and his claim to the Iron Throne. Sansa had been called before the new King, and had begged for mercy for her father, who was awaiting sentence. “All I ask is mercy for my father. He would never knowingly commit treason, somebody must have lied to him. Please, all I ask is mercy.”

“I will show him mercy,” Joffrey said. “Your sweet words have moved me, my Lady.”

Sansa smiled at the same time as the Queen, but both quickly faltered as Joffrey added, “but your father has to confess to his crime and swear fealty to me as the rightful King of Westeros. If he refuses, I shall show him no mercy.”

That afternoon was one Sansa would never forget, nor would she forgive. Her poor father had been led through the crowds and brought before the King, his court and the people, which included Arya (hidden in the common people) and Sansa, by Joffrey’s side. He had confessed to treason and swore fealty to the new King.

This appeased Joffrey, and he decided to exile Ned Stark, to remove him of all titles and honour and land and respect. Sansa dared a small smile, thinking Joffrey had meant his promise when he had said he’d be merciful. However, that changed like the wind.

“My Lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father. But she has the soft heart of a woman. So long as I am your King, treason shall never go unpunished. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!”

At once, the Queen lunged to her son, begging him to reconsider. Sansa burst into tears, also pleading. It was no use. With a single swing of the sword, Ned Stark was beheaded and Sansa’s father killed.

 

The next day, Joffrey’s reign of terror had continued. He had numerous people killed, and he sadistically played with people like they were pawns on a chessboard. He offered people a chance, claiming this to be fair, asking if they would rather their eyes or their tongues cut out. Sansa was forced to stand and watch. She couldn’t believe this was all happening. Even in the scariest books she’d heard of back in Winterfell, nothing could match Joffrey’s cruelty. When the new King had grown bored of having people killed, he sauntered off, the Hound and another bodyguard with him every step. He came right up to her, and looked her up and down. Sansa knew she looked awful: she hadn’t stopped crying properly, and she had slept very little. Her hair had been forced up by one of her new maids, and she wore her purple dress. She had never felt uglier, and yet she realised right now she no longer cared. All her feelings for Joffrey had vanished the instant he had ordered her father’s murder.

“You look quite nice,” he leered, clearly not meaning it.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“‘Your Grace’, I’m King now. Walk with me. I want to show you something.” Joffrey strode off, not waiting for her. The guard that wasn’t the Hound followed him immediately, but the Hound remained. He stared right into Sansa’s eyes, causing her stomach to flip yet again.

“Do as you’re bid, child,” he barked.

As they walked near the walls, Joffrey told Sansa of his plans for her. “I’ll put a son inside of you as soon as you’ve had your blood. Mother said that shouldn’t be long now.”

Joffrey stopped, nearing the edge of the walls, and looked up at the sticks. Sansa did the same, and quickly looked away, feeling sick and crying again.

“No, Your Grace, please!”

The other guard gripped onto Sansa’s shoulders and snarled in her ear.

“This one’s your father,” Joffrey said as he pointed to the head. “LOOK AT IT!”

Sansa’s eyes forced themselves up, tears constantly flowing down her cheeks. “You promised to be merciful.”

“I was. I gave him a clean death.”

“Please, let me go home. I won’t commit any treason, I won’t, I just –”

“My mother says I am still to marry you, so you’ll stay here and obey. Look. At. It. And we got this old bitch – your Septa, over there look.”

Fresh tears spilled down Sansa’s face.

“When I kill your traitor brother, I’ll give you his head as well, as a present.”

“Or maybe he’ll give me yours.” Sansa wasn’t even afraid. Joffrey looked taken aback, and shook his head and snarled at her. He raised his hand to her, then lowered it. “My mother told me a King should never strike his Lady. Ser Merryn.”

The other guard span Sansa round and delivered a few hard blows to her face. They caused Sansa so much pain she thought she was going to pass out, but she kept her composure. She felt her lip swell and begin to bleed.

Seeing how close Joffrey was to the edge, and how far up they were, it was easy enough to try and kill the King. Stepping forwards, she went to push him when a hand grabbed her shoulder and span her round. “Here, girl.” She saw it was the Hound. He had ripped a piece of his tunic off and was wiping the blood away, as gentle as a feather. He looked deep into her eyes and Sansa found herself wanting to cry fresh tears, but not from sadness or fear. Something else, a new feeling…


	4. Chapter 4

The sun was shining, the birds were swooping and diving in the open sky, and Sansa was at Joffrey’s side, as miserable as ever. Sansa was never happy now. She pretended to be, and she forced her smiles and remembered all her lessons from Septa Mordane, gods rest her soul. She was polite and always kind, but more often than not it was just pretend. All lies. Sansa realised, soon after her poor father had been beheaded, that King’s Landing’s building blocks were lies, betrayal and evil. Joffrey had requested men fight for his entertainment. The Hound had been picked first, by Joffrey, and he offered coins to the winner. Many brave men challenged the Hound, and none beat him. Sansa looked down onto the fight scene and felt that odd sensation. She knew the Hound wasn’t going to be beaten by anybody – there was a clear reason why he was the King’s personal bodyguard: he was fierce, fearless and dangerous. Still, Sansa’s heart quickened with each of the opponent’s attacks; it stopping altogether when they were successful. Joffrey seemed to enjoy the violence more than anyone, and more than was probably deemed healthy. Each hit, each swing, each injury to the men fighting caused his smile to grow wider and stronger, and it turned Sansa’s stomach. One man managed to deliver a blow with his sword that just nicked the Hound’s right shoulder, and Sansa couldn’t help but let out a small gasp. Joffrey’s head snapped at her and he sniggered. “Oh, my sweet Lady!” he called out, clearly wanting to humiliate her in front of his people. “Are you worried for my dog? Why don’t you go and see to his wounds. After all, dogs _do_ like bitches.” Sansa didn’t say a word, and she heard Ser Merryn laugh at her.

Thankfully, and to Sansa’s relief, the Hound wasn’t badly hurt. He returned his opponent’s attack with one ten times as powerful, knocking the man down onto the lower grounds of the Keep. Carefully watching to make sure Joffrey couldn’t see, Sansa looked at the Hound and smiled. He didn’t return the smile – she received a glare – but he didn’t look away from her until he was back on the higher tier, stood once more by Joffrey’s side, obedient as always. Joffrey looked at Sandor. “Well struck, dog.” He turned to Sansa, an evil glint in his eye. “Did you like that?”

“It was well struck, Your Grace,” Sansa replied.

“I just said that, you dumb cunt,” Joffrey snapped.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The Hound had finished his rounds in the battle, and next to fight was some knight Sansa did not know, and a man named Ser Dontos Hollard. When his name was called, he came staggering around the corner, wine staining his tunic. Sansa knew the King was going to have a delightful time torturing this one.

Ser Dontos had been late as he had been in the tavern, drinking to celebrate the new King Joffrey. The new King Joffrey had said he should continue the merriments, and ordered two of his guards to supply him with more wine. ‘Supply’ meaning force a vast amount of wine down his throat while he was bound, making him gag and choke. “Please, Your Grace, you can’t!” Sansa cried. She noticed both Joffrey and the Hound dart their eyes to her.

“What? Did you say ‘I can’t’?”

“I only meant it would be a bad omen to kill a man on your name day.”

“Stupid peasant tradition!” Joffrey spat. He went to give the order to his men, but the Hound spoke up, shocking both the King and Sansa.

“The girl is right,” he said. “A man sows on his name day, he reaps all year.” With a frustrated sigh, Joffrey ordered the guards to take Ser Dontos away. Sansa looked over the King’s head, who was now busy sulking at his shoes, and noticed once more his eyes hadn’t left her face. Again she smiled at him, but he just sighed as heavy as the King had done and looked away.

“I’ll kill him tomorrow,” Joffrey snapped. “Such a fool.”

Thinking quickly, Sansa saw a way to help Ser Dontos, and she hoped and prayed to all the Gods that it would work. “He is, a fool. You’re so clever to see it, Your Grace. He’ll make a much better fool than a knight. He doesn’t deserve the mercy of a quick death.” Sansa was sure she saw the Hound’s eyes flash to her face, not sure whether she had seen him smile quickly at her or not. Whether this had been true or not, the second Sansa blinked the Hound was back to his usual, steely gaze.

“Did you hear my Lady, Ser Dontos? From this day, you’ll be my new fool.”

“Thank you, Your Grace; and you, my Lady.” Sansa chanced a very quick, very small smile at Ser Dontos before he was led away.

 

That evening, after another painful supper with Cersei and her children, Sansa returned to her chambers. She had spent the day sat in her chambers, as Joffrey had no further use for her. She prayed to the Gods for the safety of her mother and brothers, for her rescue, for her father to rest on in peace, and for Arya’s return. She sang a few songs, old songs from back in Winterfell. Sansa sang quietly, as she didn’t want to give the King reason to punish her. Very frequently she received blow after painful blow from Ser Merryn, at the King’s request. The Hound never laid a finger on her, nor did he take pleasure in seeing the girl be beaten. Strange, for a killer such as himself to admit, but the thought of people hurting such a fragile girl made him want to break things. Quite often, the thing he desired to break was Joffrey’s neck. Sandor wasn’t fool enough to show this ‘feeling’ to anyone, which is why he always kept his guard, kept his miserable face, didn’t look at her for longer than he should. He knew she didn’t deserve to suffer Joffrey. 

This night, as the King was busy getting new robes fitted, Ser Merryn with him, Joffrey had ordered the Hound to guard Sansa. Following orders, the Hound had waited outside while Sansa had supped with the Queen and her two younger children, and when she was done he had escorted her back to her chamber.

Sansa gulped when she had been told by the Queen that Joffrey’s dog would be walking her back. She hadn’t said a word, or let her face reveal anything, but inside her heart was fluttering and she prayed her cheeks hadn’t flushed. She was terrified, and excited at the same time. She hadn’t spoken a single word to the Hound since that first day she had arrived in King’s Landing, and that was longer than Sansa cared to remember.

When she had been dismissed by Cersei, she walked to the door and he opened it, ready for her. Breathing heavily, Sansa began walking down the corridor. It was dark, and quiet, the only light was the gentle flickering of the lanterns lining the walls. For a few minutes, they walked on in silence, and soon Sansa grew afraid again. She wasn’t sure why. She turned around, and found the Hound was not two feet away from her. He towered over her like she supposed the Wall would, giant and armour-clad. She gulped and tried to look away, but she couldn’t. Her eyes were like glue, and although she tried again to look away, Sansa was transfixed.

“Are you getting a good look, girl?” he snarled. Finally – and typically at the wrong moment – Sansa looked away, and had accidentally stared at his face: the burned side. “No, ser, please, I didn’t mean to –”

“Don’t ever call me ‘ser’ again, I spit at the word.” True to his word, he spat on the floor, and sneered when Sansa pulled a face. “Oh, young Stark, so far from home.” Sansa wasn’t sure whether she should speak, so she kept quiet. She was now staring at the floor, her heart pounding.

“I didn’t mean to offend you, s –”

“Never mind,” he grumbled. “Walk.”

They continued the journey in silence, and it was even more awkward than it had been originally. Sansa’s chambers were still a good ten minutes away. The Red Keep was so large, and Sansa often got lost trying to find her way around. Sandor, who had been down every corridor and in every chamber at some point during his service, knew Sansa had walked the wrong way and hadn’t thought to tell her. He had stopped walking two corridors ago, which had gone unnoticed by Sansa. Suddenly, it dawned on her that she couldn’t hear his low breathing or his heavy footsteps behind her. Turning on her heel, she gasped in fear. Sandor heard her and laughed. Strolling round the corridors to her, she saw tears in her eyes, and suddenly he felt terrible. He didn’t show his remorse to Sansa, he just cocked his head and sighed as she walked back the other way, in the right direction.

Sansa didn’t speak a word until they were closer to her chambers. “I saw you fight this afternoon, s –”

“You and most of the Kingdom.”

“Yes, but I wanted to say… You fought well. You truly are a brave, tremendous knight.” Sansa had wanted to be courteous, and true, but this sparked the Hound off. With a low snarl in his throat, he grabbed her arm and shoved her against the wall. His grip was tight enough to hold her still, but not tight enough to cause damage. Still, Sansa winced but Sandor couldn’t see. He was furious.

“I already told you _not_ to call me ‘ser’,” he barked. “I am not a fucking knight.”

Tears were pouring down Sansa’s face, and she tried with her own little fingers to pry his off her, but he didn’t even feel her. “Do you hear me girl?” He was right in her face, inches away.

“Yes, please, let me go.”

“I’ve not finished with you yet.”

“Just let me go,” Sansa begged. “I want to go and –”

“Yes, you want to go. You probably want to do lots of pretty things. Play with your hair, or as well have a maid play with it. Or write poetry or read a damned book.”

“No, I just want to go and –”

“Oh no,” he said, sounding pleased with himself. “I know what you want to do.” Sansa looked up at him, doe-eyed, still crying, now shaking. “You want to go and sing your songs.”

“What songs?”

“There’s no need to lie to me, girl,” he said, still close to her face. “I’ve heard you. Chirping away in your cage like a little bird.”

“Yes,” was all she said.

“Will you sing about this night, about the night the Hound attacked the bird?”

“You didn’t attack me.”

Her reply sent a jolt of feeling through his body, causing a surge of unknown emotions to bolt through his entire body like lightning. He had practically assaulted her, and yet she looked at him, with eyes wet but kind, and she was looking up at him as if he had saved her from a murderous mob or some mythical deadly creature.

“Well,” he said, desperately trying to find words, “count yourself lucky I was feeling nice. This would have been another story if I’d have been angry. Or even worse if Ser Merryn were here in my place.” At these words, the fear had returned to Sansa’s eyes.

A few solid minutes passed in utter silence, and Sansa and the Hound walked the last few steps of the journey quicker than ever. Sansa went to thank the Hound for escorting her back safely, but as she turned around he had already stormed off. Sansa entered her chamber, and her maids brushed her hair and helped her change into her nightgown. Sandor, who had now officially gone off-duty, went to the tavern and had drank enough wine to make him stagger to his own chambers and collapse onto his bed, half on it, half on the floor. As he snored heavily, he found himself dreaming of a certain little bird.


	5. Chapter 5

 

The next few weeks passed by, and the Hound didn’t so much as look at Sansa for more than a few seconds, and only then it was at the request of Joffrey. He stood and watched as the little idiot King made his rules and punished people for breaking them. Sansa was often punished, but for nothing – no reason – at all. With every ordered strike from Ser Merryn, Joffrey would spit at her in a frenzy, calling her a bitch, a traitor, a worthless excuse for a future bride. And with every hit and curse, Sansa had stood, numb, with wet eyes, yet she didn’t flinch. This only seemed to make Joffrey even madder, and the hits got harder. It made the Hound want to grab Ser Merryn and pull his guts out with his bare hands, giving Joffrey the same fate once he had finished with his guard. He often thought of how the Stark girls face would look up at him, seeing past his scars and his ugliness, staring into his eyes with her own, round and shining. He often dreamt of this, and he’d wake the next morning, sweating slightly, finding himself in desperate need for lots of wine.

 

Sansa was now used to Joffrey’s cruelty, and everyday she’d prepare herself for more beatings, more name-calling. He accused her of being a traitor on a daily basis, and she was struck by Ser Merryn at least twice per day, and even then it was when the King was, to quote him, ‘feeling kind’. She hadn’t heard a word from her brother, Robb, who was marching his own army to fight Joffrey. Since refusing to swear fealty to the new King, Joffrey had ordered his men to prepare for battle. For her brother’s refusal of the new leader of Westeros, Sansa had been called before the King and all his court.

Sansa had been sat in her chamber, staring out of the window and down towards the sea, wishing to all the Gods she could transport herself onto one of the boats so she could escape and finally be free. The next minute, her maids screamed and the door swung open. Sansa heard two male voices, both of which she recognised, but for different reasons. Ser Merryn came striding over to her, fierce and eyes set ready for killing. Sansa saw the Hound grab Ser Merryn’s shoulder and stopped him from stepping nearer to Sansa. “The King gave _me_ the order, not you, _dog_.”

“And as you are aware, Trant, he gave the order for me to make sure the girl was delivered unharmed. Since I don’t think you’re capable of doing such a task, I’m here. So fucking deal with it.” Ser Merryn glared at the Hound, who ignored him and walked over to Sansa, who was now shaking. Very quietly, so only she could hear, he looked right into her eyes and said, “The King has called for you. I don’t know why but he doesn’t seem too happy. I bid you, child, just do as he says. I’ll help if I can, but don’t fight him today. He seems more pissed off than usual.”

Fear struck Sansa to the very core, and she knew she should have been terrified, and she was, but something the Hound had just said had stayed in her mind. “‘I’ll help if I can’”, he’d said. These were the words that played round and round in Sansa’s mind as she walked to the throne room, Ser Merryn leading the way, sweaty-faced and heavily breathing. The Hound walked behind Sansa, and she swore she could feel his eyes burning into her. She didn’t dare turn round to check.

When Sansa got to the throne room, Joffrey looked wild. His eyes were wide and he was practically chomping at the bit to get to her. “Ser Merryn,” he called. “Make her kneel.”

Ser Merryn grabbed hold of Sansa’s arms and marched her to the foot of the Iron Throne, where Joffrey had laid out his beloved crossbow. She tried to be strong, so she held back the tears, but Joffrey knew she was about to break. “You treacherous bitch!” he screamed. “You know why you are here, no?”

“No, Your Grace,” Sansa sobbed.

“For your brother’s latest treasons,” Joffrey snarled.

“Your Grace, whatever my traitor brother did,” Sansa said, almost choking on the word ‘traitor’, “you know I had no part in it. I beg you, please –”

“Ser Stafford Lannister is now dead, thanks to your bastard of a brother!” Joffrey fumed. “Once again, the Starks of Winterfell seek out to destroy the Lannisters and ruin their rightful claim to the Iron Throne!”

A member of Joffrey’s court, a blonde haired boy Sansa had heard was Lancel Lannister, said, “It is said that the young Stark feasted on the flesh of the slain with his wolf. It is said that they fought over the carcasses together, picking their teeth with the bones once they had done.” Sansa knew this was utterly ridiculous, but kept silent.

Joffrey loaded his crossbow with great care, handling it as if it was his most prized possession, and then aimed it directly at Sansa’s face. “Killing you worthless little bitch _would_ send your traitor brother a message –” At this Sansa couldn’t help but let out a sob – “but my mother _insists_ on keeping you alive.”

Without meaning to, Sansa’s eyes flicked up and caught the Hound’s. His face was unreadable as ever, and he didn’t seem to be looking at her, but Sansa saw the tiniest blink of his eyes and understood.

“Stand,” Joffrey ordered. Sansa obeyed, shaking, still crying and feeling utterly hopeless. “We’ll have to send your brother a message some other way.”

Sansa’s eyes went wide, wondering what the King could possibly mean, and he clarified with, “Ser Merryn.” At once, Sansa gulped. The Hound had stopped Ser Merryn touching her before, but now he had been ordered by the King, so nobody could stop him now. With a look of pure sadistic evil on his face, Ser Merryn laughed and raised a metal-gloved fist at Sansa’s face.

“Wait!” Joffrey called out, and everyone wondered if he’d changed his mind. “Leave her face. I like her pretty.” With a nod from Ser Merryn, he raised his fist again and hit her repeatedly in her stomach and ribs. With each hit, Sansa gasped, and this made Joffrey laugh. The lords and ladies of the court all gasped, some even turned away.

With one almighty blow, Ser Merryn had winded Sansa and had forced her to collapse onto the floor, Sansa sobbing on her knees.

“Merryn, my lady is overdressed,” Joffrey said. “Unburden her. Let’s allow the court to glimpse at the naked body of a traitor bitch.” At this, which went unseen y Sansa, the Hound’s eyes flashed into the King’s skull, and if looks could kill Joffrey would have died ten times over.

Sansa wanted nothing more than to fight back, to protest, anything; but she knew she’d be helpless. Ser Merryn grabbed the back of her dress and ripped it, the sound of tearing material echoing all around the throne room, Joffrey sat on the throne with a sick glint in his eye. It tore down the front, but Sansa retained her modesty by holding up the torn fabric with her trembling hands. Again going unnoticed by Sansa, the Hound looked away, feeling ashamed and utterly disgusted with Joffrey. “If we want Robb Stark to hear us, we’re going to have to speak _louder_!” Joffrey screamed. At this, Ser Merryn unsheathed his sword and raised it flat, aiming just below Sansa’s right ear. Thankfully, and Sansa thanked all the Gods, Tyrion Lannister entered the throne room and ordered his nephew to stop.

Joffrey looked furious, but Tyrion did not care as he walked over to Sansa and checked she hadn’t been too badly harmed. He glared at Ser Merryn. “What kind of knight beats a helpless girl?”

“The kind who serves his King, Imp.”

“Someone get the girl something to cover herself with!” Tyrion ordered. At this, Sansa looked up and saw the Hound jump to order. He walked over to her, and carefully removed his own cloak and covered her with it, gently placing it on her shoulders. Sansa gripped the cloak as if it were the source of her being, and she wasn’t entirely sure whether the Hound had whispered something, ever so quickly, before returning to his position near the King. If it turned out he had whispered, he’d said, “Don’t worry, little bird.”

Tyrion crossed words with Joffrey, scorning him and calling him names. This didn’t best please Joffrey, but Tyrion ignored him and returned to Sansa. He helped her to her feet and checked she was alright.

“I am sorry, my Lady,” he said sincerely, helping Sansa to her feet. “I would escort you back to your chambers myself, but someone needs to stay and teach this idiot a lesson or two… Clegane. See to it the girl is safely back in her chambers. Guard her today and tonight. Let no one in.”

Sansa saw the Hound go to move, but Joffrey stopped him. “He is my _sworn shield_ , you stupid little Imp!” he roared at his uncle. “Dog, stay where you are. Do not listen to a half-man.”

Tyrion went over to Joffrey and stared him right in the face. “She is to be your _queen_ , you shall treat her with respect. And as I am Hand of the King, your advisor, I am advising you right now to spare your Lady and to allow her some peace and safety. She deserves it after everything you have put her through. Clegane _will_ go with her, and he _will_ guard her until tomorrow morning. I am sure you are perfectly capable of being looked after by Ser Merryn.”

Joffrey looked like he wanted to kill every single person in the throne room, and yet he didn’t argue with his uncle. Instead, he just ordered the Hound to ‘make her scream’. The Hound was quite disgusted with himself when an image flashed his mind in which he was making Sansa scream, but not in the way Joffrey had requested. He quickly shook that fantasy out of his head and nodded at his King. He walked over to the Stark girl. Sansa went to give him his cloak back, but he shook his head. “You need it more than I do, girl. Come on, let’s get you back.”

Sansa was still crying when she left the throne room, the Hound not two steps behind her. She could hear his breathing, and she knew if she had been at his full height, she’d almost have been able to feel his breath on the back of her neck. This thought – the thought of having the Hound, a man seasoned in battle, fully grown, fierce and feared, so close to her – sent a shiver all the way up her body, burning her to her core.

They spoke not a single word the entire journey back to Sansa’s chambers, which took longer than usual. The Hound noticed Sansa’s steps were smaller than usual, and he wondered if she was doing it on purpose, to prolong their walk back? Or perhaps she didn’t want to be guarded in her chambers by the Hound, and so was trying to prevent it as best she could. Whichever way, the Hound could tell she was still extra vulnerable, and so didn’t press the matter.

When they eventually reached the young Stark’s chambers, Sansa was still crying, but softer now. The sobs had faded, the heavy sighs had died down, and now only a few gentle tears trickled down her face. Suddenly a piece of golden cloth was by her face, and she looked up through blurry vision and saw it was the Hound. She made no movement, so the Hound gestured at the cloth once more. “Take it,” he said. “Dry your eyes.”

“Thank you, ser,” Sansa said, and she bit her lip realising what she had said. She looked up timidly, expecting him to thrust her against the wall as he had done previously, but today he just glared at her a bit stronger than usual and shook his head. “Bloody women.”

Sansa let out a giggle at this, which shocked both her and the Hound. He looked down at her and frowned, and she just continued to giggle. “What’s so funny, girl?” Sansa didn’t reply right away. “Are you going to tell me at all this century, or… ?”

“I… I’m sorry,” she said.

The Hound heard guards approaching, and didn’t want Sansa to go through any more torment this day. “Hurry up, girl,” he barked, opening her chamber door. “Inside. Now.” He made sure Sansa was safely inside before following her and closing the door behind him. He didn’t bolt it, because he knew Sansa was finally safe now he was here. He turned round once he had closed the door and saw that Sansa was stood in the middle of her room, leaning ever so slightly against her bedframe. Realising she was in the company of a man, she blushed delicately and took a few steps away, finally settling on a high-backed green chair. She closed her eyes for a moment and sighed, and the Hound wondered when she had last felt this peaceful. Not since she had been brought to King's Landing, that was for sure.

Unbeknown to the Hound, however, Sansa was anything _but_ peaceful. Having him in her chambers, her being under his protection, had set Sansa up with an entirely new sensation. She was still rather afraid of the Hound, she knew he was a killer, a fighter; and yet the thought of him being in the same room as her, _her room_ , with locked doors and beating hearts… Sansa was rather excited. She knew a Lady such as herself should trembled in fear and probably faint at such a beast, but Sansa expected if she were to faint from the Hound, it wouldn’t be out of fear entirely.

Usually, when Sansa returned to her chambers, her maids would rush to her at once and brush her hair and make her tea or bring her a lemon cake from the kitchens or the local market stalls if she had requested one. At the sight of the Hound, however, they fearfully eyed him and took smaller steps towards Sansa. One maid went to pick up Sansa’s hair brush, another to fetch a pot of tea, and Sansa saw their hands were shaking badly, as if they were both being bolted with stroke after stroke of lightning. “Thanks to you both, but you may leave us,” Sansa said. “You are dismissed. If I require your services further I shall send for you.” On noticing their scared expressions at the thought of leaving their Lady alone with such a man, Sansa smiled kindly. “Do not worry for me, I shall be quite alright. Go, the sun is shining and I doubt you have ever had Ladies so kind as to give you the afternoon off. Go… enjoy King’s Landing.” The Hound noticed a few fresh tears prick her eyes at this comment. After all, Sansa had come to this terrible capital in the first place, thinking it to be wonderful and the place she’d finally live the life she’d always dreamed of. Not the torturous prison it turned out to be. Her two maids left her, the door shutting quicker than the Hound had ever known, and now they had gone the room had never felt quieter. Not knowing exactly what he was supposed to do now he had brought Sansa back to her chamber, he guarded the door and stared straight ahead. Sansa saw that same steely, unseeing gaze and sighed. She approached him slightly, only one or two tiny feet closer to him, and she looked at him for a good while. Previously, her eyes would have gone straight to the obvious place, his scarred side, and she would normally have looked ashamed, or just stared not knowing how best to react. On this instance, however, she looked past all that and focused entirely on his eyes. Slate-black, and at first seeming cold and distant, as Sansa’s blue eyes locked onto his she felt her heart flutter and almost burst in her chest. She let out a quick, unexpected gasp and looked away at the floor, cheeks burning bright red. The Hound had of course been looking right at her, directly into her eyes, too, but he had had years of practice of making it seem like he was actually staring right through a person. When their eyes had met, and locked and danced together, he too had felt a strange stirring, although his was not in his heart. His breeches were now rather tight, and he cleared his throat and tried to calm himself down.

“Does the little bird want anything?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level.

“What like?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped, the extra heat making him more grumpy than usual. “I don’t care if you are the future queen, I’m not fucking brushing your hair. That’s a maid’s job.” This seemed to particularly amuse Sansa, who once more burst into a fit of giggles. Once her laughted had faded, the room was quiet again and the Hound was _still_ hard. He was disgusted at himself, but there wasn’t much he could do about it now. Any thought he tried to soften himself didn’t work, and even the ugliest whore he imagined faded until Sansa’s perfect face and body took over, eyes shut and mouth open, panting as he took her… it was no use.

He hadn’t realised he had closed his eyes until he opened them moments later, stepping back as he found Sansa as close as she dared to get. He swallowed hard, and frowned down at the girl. “What?” Sansa bit her lip, completely innocently the Hound was sure, but this was pure hell for him. If he had hoped to have softened before, now he was as solid as a rock again, and dangerously close. “What?” he repeated, his voice deep and gruff. “There is one thing I want.” The Hound said nothing.

“And what would _that_ be?”

“If it please you, s – I’d like to know your name.”

“Why?”

“You know I am Sansa, do you not?”

“Yes.”

“And you call me… ‘little bird’. I think it only fair that in return I know your name.”

“You bloody well _know_ my name. I’m ‘The Hound’, or ‘Dog’. See, you know two names.”

“Are ‘The Hound’ or ‘Dog’ the names you were given at birth?” Sansa asked, rather daringly. Even she couldn’t believe she was being so informal – a Lady wasn’t supposed to ask such questions – but there was something different about the Hound. She felt differently when she was around and with him, and the way he looked at her… Feeling her cheeks blush again, she stepped back a few paces. The Hound was grateful for this, as he was _still_ more turned on that he cared for. He hadn’t had a fuck in some time, and with Sansa being this close, this beautiful, and being in her chambers, so close to the bed, alone with a closed door…

“No,” rasped the Hound, snapping her out of her wild fantasy train of thought, in turn breaking his own; “but my birth name does not matter. It doesn’t matter to your beloved King, or to the Queen, or anyone from court, so –”

“It matters to me,” Sansa said, so quiet the Hound barely heard her.

“What?”

“I said… I said it matters to me,” she repeated, louder this time as if she wasn’t afraid of him hearing her. She took a few steps closer to him again, and the Hound knew this was getting too dangerous for the both of them.

“Why are you so goddamn interested?”

“I simply wish to know the name of the guard who has been entrusted to look after me this night,” she said honestly. “And we both know that you have been more than kind to me on a number of occasions, and so –”

“Seven hells!” he sighed, frustrated. “You want to know my name so bad? Fine! It’s Sandor.”

“Sandor,” Sansa repeated, letting the name rest on her tongue awhile. “Sandor. Sandor… Clegane.”

“Yes, congratulations my Lady,” he said, completely mocking her. “Are you satisfied now?”

“Yes, thank you, se – Sandor.”

 

Once Sansa had been told of his name, she smiled up at him and Sandor knew she wasn’t staring at his face because it was funny and odd to look at. He knew she was searching, looking and hoping to see him staring back at her. A few times, he played with the little bird and he _did_ stare, right into her eyes, not blinking, barely breathing, and each time he saw her cheeks flush and her breathing increased and she’d try to make herself last, to stare him out and win, but he beat her every time.

It was late afternoon now, the sun had started to set and there was a cool breeze blowing in from the open window. Sandor had long since calmed himself down, and Sansa had decided to have a bath. Since her maids had been dismissed, Sandor gulped as he thought he’d have to help her. He made no movement, allowing Sansa to see he had no intentions of undressing her (however untrue that was) and Sansa walked into the bathroom. Sighing in relief, Sandor had seated himself on the green chair Sansa had been sat on earlier, and although he was resting he had his sword not even two inches away, just in case.

“Sandor?”

He froze in his seat. What did she want? Surely she didn’t expect him to bathe her. Sansa had passed her fifteenth name day now, she was almost sixteen, almost a woman grown. Over her time at King’s Landing, her face had lost its youthful roundness, and the high cheekbones that were now in place showed the Tully in her. Her waist had also curved, her hips had widened and her breasts had blossomed. She truly was a young woman now. That in mind, and true it was firmly planted in Sandor’s, he shook his head as he stood up. “What is it, little bird?”

“I forgot my towels,” she replied. “Would you mind awfully bringing them in here? I wish to get dry.” Sandor frowned. She had passed the cupboard she kept her towels in on her way into the bathroom. Had she simply forgotten, or was she playing with him? Sandor understood she was a Lady, the King’s Lady no less, but surely a highborn young woman such as herself wouldn’t find it too much of a stretch to fetch her own bathing towels. _Besides_ , Sandor thought as he grabbed a couple of towels from the cupboard and stood outside the bathroom door, _Sansa is far too innocent to plan something like THAT._

He knocked on the door once, but Sansa didn’t respond. He knocked again, louder. “Oh!” he heard her say from the other side. “I didn’t hear you. Come in.”

“What?”

“Come in,” she repeated simply.

“Sansa, I don’t think that is such a good idea. It’s not right for you to be nake –”

“I need my towels, and I would thank you kindly not to throw them on the floor. Just hand them to me. Please.”

Sandor shook his head, knowing this would be absolute torture. He entered and tried to look anywhere but at her. Granted, Sansa had the proper upbringing and modesty to be facing away from him, and she was stood behind her dresser. Her dresser which had been set against the window, which had been shaded, but still the fading sunlight shone through, making the dresser go see-through. Sandor felt his cock harden as he saw her outline, so perfect, and he cleared his throat. He knew behind that screen she was as naked as the day she was born, hot and wet from her bath. He could see her hair, saw how it stuck to her, flowing down her collarbone and neck. Sansa giggled, but he knew best to ignore her. He left the room, allowing her the courtesies to get dried off and dressed again.

 _Seven hells_ , he thought. She didn’t expect him to help her dress, did she? Sandor wasn’t entirely sure he’d survive that. He’d barely been able to cope seeing her through a goddamn screen. Thankfully, a few minutes later, Sansa entered her chamber and was fully dressed. Well, if fully dressed meant a lilac pink slip that came just above the knee, and was cut just low enough for her breasts to be seen from. He knew Joffrey had requested this to be made for her, but Joffrey had told her she mustn’t wear it until their wedding night. Once more, Sandor cleared his throat and suddenly felt very hot in his tunic. Sansa noticed this, and smirked to herself. She knew she was making him this way, and although she was still a maid, she found herself not wanting to be anymore.

Growing up, Sansa had always been told that her maidenhead was a special thing she should treasure, a precious gift to be given to her husband on their wedding night. Septa Mordane had told her it was all that a woman had of her own value. Cersei had told her it was a ‘cunt’, and the best weapon a woman was born with. Right now, Sansa didn’t know which was true, if any. All she knew was that Sandor had sparked something deep inside her. He made her feel hot and her breathing always quickened when she saw him looking at her.

“Little bird,” he said, “you are aware that the King has said you aren’t to wear this until your wedding night.”

“Are you going to tell him?” Sansa asked bravely. She was trying to be… sexy, but she also prayed that the Hound wouldn’t snap and turn on her and tell the King. Sandor stared at her, seriously, for a few moments, and then shook his head, giving a deep laugh. “No, I won’t. If you change. It’s not appropriate. I am guarding you for this night, but if someone was to come in and see and then tell the King –”

At these words, Sansa panicked and knew he was right. She sighed, huffily, and went into her chamber and changed. When she returned, she was wearing a silk top and silk bottoms, both deep blue – Sandor noticed the colour almost matched her eyes. This wardrobe change wasn’t as revealing as before, but the top still clung where it probably shouldn’t have, allowing Sandor a glorious view of her heaving, growing bosom.

It was now growing late. The sun had disappeared, the moon high in its place. The stars were shining above the sea in King’s Landing, and Sansa had grown tired. Today had been long, painful, yet being with Sandor had made all the bad things that happened this morning seem unimportant. Sansa shivered as she thought of tomorrow, a new day, more beatings, more abuse, more humiliation. She only prayed that Sandor would treat her similar to how he had done today. He had been kind, and Sansa had found underneath all his fierceness and anger and hate, he wasn’t quite the monster everybody thought he was. Of course she said not a word of this to him, dreading it if he would react and show her different and change her mind.

“Should you not get some rest, girl?” Sandor asked as the hour grew later.

“Probably,” Sansa replied. “But I would feel so rude sleeping while you were forced to stay awake. On your own.”

“It’s no bother, girl. Plus, it’s my job.”

“What would you be doing if you were not working for the crown?”

“Honestly?” Sandor asked, testing her.

“Honestly,” Sansa repeated, smiling sweetly at him. She moved to sit on the edge of her bed, feet curled up beneath her. He was sat in the green chair again, facing her, about ten feet away. “I’d be in the tavern, getting drunk off my face on wine. Or –”

“Do you want some wine? The Queen always has some in her chamber. I have some left as a gift.” Sandor laughed at this. “You drink wine, little bird?”

“Well, our father…” she paused, wiped a tear away, “we were only allowed one cup at feasts. But now I am almost a woman grown, and –”

“That you are,” he whispered. Not quiet enough – Sansa had heard him. He blinked at her, realising. “Yes, let’s have wine.” He knew this was foolish. _Fuck it_ , he thought. _Fuck everything._ Sansa went to stand to get it, but he held out an arm and shook his head. “You’re a lady,” he said, again mocking. “I’ll get it. I should be able to find it…”

Moments later he was standing near to the bed, pouring two cups of wine, Sansa watching him eagerly. He gave Sansa a smaller amount than himself, as he didn’t know how it would affect her, and he trusted himself with an amount that would kill his thirst yet keep him sober. Sansa managed to turn him on when he was sober, he didn’t dare think how she’d make him if he kept drinking wine.

Sansa took a sip first, and Sandor watched her carefully. As the liquid met her tongue, she blinked and coughed, wrinkling her pretty little nose. Sandor rasped, “Not to your taste, my Lady?”

“It’s… it’s nice. It’s just a bit strange. I’m not familiar with drinking unless at a feast.”

“Then you shouldn’t have anymore.”

Defiantly, Sansa raised her eyebrows at him and didn’t take her eyes off his as she downed the first cup in one. Pulling a face, she gestured at him for more.

“Now now, little bird,” Sandor said, half-smirking half-frowning, “is that wise?”

“Are you going to deny the thirst of the King’s future Queen?”

Sandor smiled wider. Sansa had never been like this. How quick had the wine got to her? Obeying, he filled her cup back up. Sansa demanded that he do the same, and so he did, and they both drank their second cup.

The hour was later still now, the sky pitch black, and Sansa was on her bed, laughing. Sandor knew this wasn’t what Joffrey had ordered – if he found out his guard had been kind and drank wine with his Lady, Sandor would probably suffer the same fate as so many – but right now, Sansa was happy, and what Joffrey didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Plus, he was enjoying himself too much to give a fuck what that stupid idiot King thought.

“Can I tell you something, ser?” Sansa said after a while.

“What?”

“You aren’t half as what I said people thought you were.” Sandor frowned. Sansa was clearly drunk.

“Say again?”

“People. Everyone. Littlefinger. No! Mr Ser Baelish. The day of King Robert’s tourney. He had told me a story. The story of you and your brother. Of how he burn –”

Sandor couldn’t control himself. He sprang to his feet and had leapt onto the bed, standing but right in Sansa’s face. He’d grabbed her by the shoulders and had forced her up to him. She was kneeling tall, and she had started to cry.

“Say. That. Again. Did you say Littlefinger told you about my brother? About what _happened?_ ”

“I’m sorry!” Sansa said quickly, fear returning her eyes quicker than sin. “I didn’t mean to… I said I’d never repeat it. I am sorry, ser, I –”

“Damn it, didn’t I already tell you _not_ to call me ‘ser’?!” he said angrily.

“Sandor,” Sansa breathed, eyes blurry with tears. “I’m sorry. Please, don’t hate me. I couldn’t bare it if you hated me. Joffrey already does. The Queen already does. Everyone in court and the lower towns and cities hates me. Please, just one person. You. Let everyone else hate me. I don’t want you to, I couldn’t cope with you hat –”

Without thinking, and before he could realise his actions and stop himself, Sandor had grabbed Sansa’s face, cupping her chin gently with his rough fingers. Through tears, Sansa blinked and hitched her breath as she felt his lips crash down onto hers. The kiss had taken her by complete surprise, and the ache she had been suffering all day finally surfaced as she let a small moan escape her lips. Sandor didn’t release her, he just lifted her up so she was standing, and they stumbled backwards, crashing against a wall. He pressed her against it hard, and reached for her mouth again. The fingers on his left hand were tangled in her hair, tugging but not roughly, and his right hand held her waist, the weight of his body crushing her. Her mouth was soft and her lips were the most delicate thing he had ever felt, and the contrast against his own mouth, hot, wet and heavy, was phenomenal. Sansa was going crazy. Joffrey had only kissed her for a brief second – when he used to kiss her, that is – and it had never been anything like this. He took his mouth away from hers for a second, and they both stared at each other, panting. When they kissed a second time, it was Sansa who reached out for him. Eyes closed, mouth opened, their lips met and he let her lead the kiss. She was inexperienced, pressing gentle kisses against his mouth, so he decided to help her. Pressing his own tongue against her own, he let them dance in their mouths and then stopped, and soon enough Sansa did the same, snaking her own tongue into Sandor’s mouth. The kiss went from strength to strength, and soon enough Sansa was weak at the knees. During the kiss, she had felt her smallclothes grow wet, and she had been embarrassed as she’d thought it was a bad thing. Sandor kissed her with such passion, and he in turn was once more solid as a rock. Sansa felt something hot bulge up against her stomach, and she let out a breathy moan as she realised exactly what it was.

The kiss continued, Sansa’s heart beating quicker now she knew what she had made Sandor do, and Sandor lost his footing – or so that seemed – and the two stumbled back, still locked together by their mouths. They crashed their fall on Sansa’s mattress, and without a second thought Sandor had climbed on top of Sansa. She was beneath him, ready for him Sandor could tell. Her chest was rising and falling deeply, her face and neck flushed, and she looked so delicious, Sandor felt his cock grow harder. He wanted her with every ounce of his being, the possibility driving him almost over the edge. Sansa let out a loud moan, and quickly worrying that someone would walk by and hear, he silenced her with his mouth. She soon grew breathless, and he broke the kiss.

Suddenly, the reality of the situation hit him heavier than any sword ever would, and he stood up, shaking and breathing heavier than ever before. Sansa panted and sat up too, frowning at Sandor.

“What is it?” she asked, struggling to find the breath to form the words.

“Not right…” he said. He grabbed his sword which had been propped up on the green chair and sighed before turning to face her. “Too much wine. I’m drunk, Sansa. This isn’t right. Forget all about this. You’ll be safe now. I’m going.” Without another word he left. Sansa heard two frightened gasps and her maids returned, along with another guard who was ordered by a deep, gruff voice to ‘stand here all fucking night without question until the Hand of the King came by’. Then he was gone, leaving her alone, confused and afraid.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

It was a good few weeks until Sansa got the chance to speak to Sandor again. Ever since that night – which to Sansa had been magical, exciting and confusing – she hadn’t had the opportunity to speak to the Hound and talk about what happened. To him, she imagined, it had probably meant nothing, but to Sansa it had caused such emotions, when he left and her maids had finally left her alone she had spent the entire night and a good part of the morning crying. The next morning, when Joffrey teased her for being ugly, for being the whore daughter of a traitor and his bitch wife, she had cried, and Joffrey had smugly thought it was because of his words. If he’d have known it was over his dog, his bodyguard – the man who was standing and watching her cry with a face like stone – she knew it would be the end for both of them.

 

Around four days later after _that_ night, Joffrey had summoned Sansa to court once again. This time, she didn’t suffer humiliation and torture like usual. Well, she did, but not in the usual sense. Today, Joffrey wanted to ensure his top guards were at their best and so decided that men would be pit against each other in the throne room. Cersei had advised her son against the idea, but a firm slap on her cheek and the threat of execution for ‘going against the King’s wishes’ soon silenced her. Sansa sat on a chair considerably lower down than where Joffrey was – Joffrey said this was to remind her of her position. “These are the men I will have rape you and cut your throat you if you dare defy me again,” Joffrey had hissed at her maliciously. Men fought against each other in combat, using swords and axes and shields. Blood was spilled, men grew sweaty and it soon got rather humid. Joffrey had ordered all men who wished to continue to fight to remove their armour and to fight ‘how the barbarians did’: shirtless. Of course Sandor was included in the men who were fighting, and as he was Joffrey’s sworn shield, he was obviously in it until the very end. The fight training continued. The King had ordered no man be fatally wounded or killed, but when one man accidentally stabbed another man through the shoulder, he laughed and smiled so much it made Sansa feel ill. She tried her best to keep a straight face, to keep cool and not give anything away, but inside she was going wild. The pure sight of Sandor like that – hot, sweaty, shirtless, fierce and aggressive – made her feel hot and she prayed to the Gods that her cheeks hadn’t flushed. Remembering how close their bodies had been, Sansa had only got to feel the Hound’s body through his tunic and armour. Seeing it now, with her own eyes, she couldn’t believe what she could have had that evening. Everyone could tell even with all his armour on that Sandor was muscled like a bull, broad and firm and not an inch of fat. He was all taut and even though there was a hint of scar tissue running down his right chest and shoulder, Sansa thought he was incredible. His chest was slightly hairy, dark and shading his chest and lower stomach, but this was how men looked – real, tough men. Not idiot princes like Joffrey. Sansa had lost herself in a slight daydream, and when she realised and crashed back into herself, the fighting was over. Sansa felt her face quickly flush as she blinked and saw Sandor staring at her from across the way – he’d been looking at her for quite some time, inconspicuously of course; and Sansa had been too busy fantasising about him to notice.

A week had now passed by, and Sansa found no opportunity to speak to Sandor – alone. As Joffrey’s sworn shield, wherever the King went, Sandor went. Often she was stood in a room, mostly the throne room, Sandor no more than ten feet away from her. Being so close, but being surrounded and in no position or place to talk to him, was torture, and Sansa felt it more painful that Ser Merryn’s fists. Joffrey was still cruel to Sansa. Her brother Robb and his army of northmen were getting closer and closer to war with Joffrey’s men by the day, and as they got nearer, the hits Sansa received got harder. Sandor just stood and watched, watched the floor, the spot on the wall next to where his little bird was being beaten. There were many times when he’d imagine himself strangling Joffrey, slaughtering Ser Merryn and taking Sansa back to her chambers, or even taking her out of King’s Landing and somewhere safe. But he did nothing, fantasies being all they were. He couldn’t exactly make her run away with him when he had trouble looking her in the eye. Each time Joffrey had spoken to Sansa, and Sansa had responded, he knew her sad eyes were searching for his. The Hound was too much of a dog to look at her back, unless he was forced to. Even then, he had perfected the art of looking straight through somebody, which is what he did.

 

Two and a half weeks flew since that night in Sansa’s chambers, and today things finally changed. As usual, Sansa had been summoned to court – this time it was Ser Merryn who had been sent to fetch her. She could feel his painful grip long after he had released her. When Joffrey had finished with her, and after blow after painful blow from Ser Merryn – this time it was because Robb had killed one of the Lannister spies sent to discover their battle plans – Joffrey dismissed Sansa with a wave of his gloved fingers. Sansa heard that the Hand of the King – his uncle Tyrion Lannister – was due in court any moment, and Sansa knew Joffrey didn’t want to be undermined in front of his people again. With Ser Merryn firmly by his side, he snapped for his dog. “Hound, where are you?”

“Here, my Lord,” the Hound said, loyalty in his voice but hatred in his eyes – hatred, it seemed, that only Sansa could detect. “Take my bitch back to her chambers, _dog_ ,” Joffrey said unkindly. “I require you no further this day, Ser Merryn will be my number one. You are to keep an eye on her and make sure she doesn’t commit any act that might further her families’ treason, or cause me further harm.”

Sandor didn’t know exactly what harm the young Stark was meant to have caused him, but keeping up appearances he nodded and obeyed. As he went to walk over to Sansa, to escort her back, Joffrey stopped him with a quick flash of his hand. “Again,” he said, whispering into Sandor’s ear, “I don’t know what you did last time when I said make her scream but you definitely did something to upset my lady. Be sure to repeat that behaviour tonight. There shall be rewards for you.” Joffrey jangled his pocket, ensuring Sandor head the coins bouncing. “Now, you know what to do. Make her _scream_. Away with you, dog. Go and teach the bitch a lesson.”

When Joffrey had said this to Sandor the first time, his filthy thoughts had sent his cock hard straight away. This time, however, he was focused. He still felt guilty over what had happened the last time. Sansa had wanted him, there was no mistaking that. The way she flirted with him, and the clothes she wore, and she was the one who offered the wine… This time, Sandor decided, if she offered him wine, or offered him _anything_ , he’d simply refuse her. He was still aching for her, but he knew as well as she did it was dangerous, and impossible. Joffrey got busy attending to other matters that obviously concerned him more than Sandor or Sansa did, and he didn’t even give a second look to either of them as the Hound walked over to Sansa and said “Come on, back we go… l –”

Unlike last time, when Sansa had taken rather a long time to walk back to her chambers, today it felt like they were there in no time at all. Sansa hadn’t said a word. She hadn’t even looked at Sandor. They reached her chambers and the maid that she’d been given recently was just finishing changing her bed. Clean, fresh silk sheets were being spread over her mattress and the beautiful tanned maid smiled at her Lady. On sight of the Hound, close behind Sansa, the maid’s smile faltered slightly, the hint of an arch in her brows. “My Lady, are you alright?”

“Yes, thank you Shae. I’m fine.”

“I will cut off their faces if they hurt you much longer,” Shae said, not caring for Sandor’s presence.

“Shae!” Sansa gasped, fearfully glancing at Sandor. “Not here. Not in front of…”

“Don’t worry,” Sandor growled, a familiar tone, “I won’t say anything.” Shae looked smug, but Sansa shook her head. “You’re the King’s bodyguard, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you here now then?” Shae was nothing if blunt. “I can take care of my L –”

“The King has requested that I look after her for the rest of today and tonight. I’m not leaving.”

“It’s fine, Shae, _honestly_ ,” Sansa said, trying to keep her heart calm. “My beloved King Joffrey has ordered this, so let it be so.” All three of them knew this was rehearsed from Sansa, speaking loyally in case guards were listening in. “If I may, I’d quite like a bath.” At once, Sansa’s handmaid went to walk to the bathroom, but Sansa shook her head. “No, I think I’d like a bath with rose oils in today. I don’t think I have any left… Shae, go to the market in the lower town and get some from the stall by the sea.”

“That will take a while, my lady,” Shae said defiantly. “Can I not go and see if –?”

“Shae, _please_ ,” Sansa urged. Truth be told Sansa didn’t fancy a bath. She just wanted an excuse to be alone, _finally_ , with Sandor. With a final huff from her maid, Shae was defeated and put on her cloak and left, eyeing Sandor suspiciously before she went.

Now that Shae had left, it was silent, and awful. When the pair had entered Sansa’s chambers, Sansa had gone and stood next to Shae, near the window looking down onto the sea, and Sandor had been standing, leaning only slightly against a wall. When he had realised exactly which wall it was, he stood up and paced to the wall by the door.

Sansa felt her cheeks grow hot again and she walked into her bathroom, not caring to close the door. She splashed her face with some ice cold water, and it helped slightly. She fanned her face, and told her to pull it together. A Lady shouldn’t let a man – especially a man like the Hound – get to her like this. She needed answers from him. Taking a moment to gather herself, she took a deep breath, eyes closed, and when she reopened them and spun around she gasped. Sandor was standing in the doorway, watching her intently. “Careful now,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Finding her courage, she replied, “What did you mean to do?” Sandor knew she wasn’t talking about this instance. He sighed and shook his head. “I knew you wanted to talk to me about… what happened.”

“Well, yes,” Sansa breathed. “I just want to know why you didn’t want me?” Sansa felt her face go even hotter, but right now she didn’t fuss. Sandor was beside himself. How could she think he hadn’t wanted her? If the little bird had known that every night since their encounter he had pleasured himself – and in turn tortured himself – to the thought of her, what then? He even visited a brothel a few nights ago. That day, Sansa had looked particularly beautiful: full lips, shining hair, glowing face. Joffrey had made all the men of his army train against each other, and Sandor had noticed Sansa had been staring at him. He had been shirtless, sweating and breathless, panting when he had finally defeated the last opponent, and he had caught his little bird staring – properly staring – at him. He had been so hard, his hand wouldn’t have even touched him. He went to the whorehouse, paid for the only redhead that was free, and had taken her from behind, rather humorous given his nickname. He had closed his eyes from start to finish, imagining Sansa moaning and writhing at his touch. When he had finished, it took all his self-control not to call out her name. That same night, when wine had filled him to a drunken state, he had collapsed on his bed and had fallen asleep, seeing Sansa’s perfect face in his dreams.

“Sansa…” he began, clearing his throat. “I –”

“I _am_ a woman now, Sandor,” she said, stepping closer to him a few steps. “I’ve had my blood. I know Joffrey isn’t to take me until our wedding night, but I don’t want Joffrey, I want –”

“Sansa,” Sandor had met her steps with his own and they were now close, standing facing each other. He towered over her, and she gulped. Tears were threatening her eyes, but she let them fall. Her breath hitched as his finger reached out and caught her tears, wiping them away. “Hush, little bird, don’t cry. You shouldn’t cry over a dog.”

“Am I not attractive to you?”

“Sansa…” the Hound stopped himself, wondering whether it was worth the risk to tell her that he thought she was the most beautiful woman in all the Seven Kingdoms. He knew this wouldn’t have a happy ending for either of them. He was a fool if he thought anything could happen. Sansa Stark was a fantasy to him, not to mention a million leagues from his, and sadly a fantasy was all she could ever remain. “No, Sansa.”

At this, she mistook his words and more tears fell down her cheeks.

“No! SEVEN HELLS!” He kicked the wall hard in frustration. “See. This is so bad.”

“What is?”

“Well for one, I’m a dog. You’re a highborn lady, future Queen of Westeros. You shouldn’t be wanting an old thing like me.” Sansa opened her mouth to speak, but he continued; “Sansa, understand me when I say this…” He was about to say how he felt, about how he thought she was more beautiful than anyone he had ever seen, but instead he decided on “This isn’t going to work. Forget this stupid fantasy of me. I understand you’re a young woman, and as you are still a maid you’re experiencing all these… these feelings. But they aren’t welcomed by me. Focus on wanting Joffrey.” Sandor stood up and went to leave, but Sansa had also stood up. She had reached out and tried to grab him, but she had lost her footing and slipped. Just before she fell and hit her head on the tub, he had darted and saved her. He stood her up and didn’t take his arms off her shoulders. Sansa felt her heart go into overdrive, beating so fast Sansa thought her ribs were going to break. “Please, little bird, forget this.”

“I want you,” she said quietly, gentle tears falling. “I know it’s not proper, and I know I am supposed to love Joffrey, but he’s cruel and I don’t love him anymore. You’re so kind, Sandor, and I –”

Sandor couldn’t help but snort at this. “Little bird, listen to me. I am not kind. I am a killer. The world is built by killers. I am a killer, Joffrey is a killer. Even your Lord father was a killer. Your brothers are killers, and someday your sons will be killers.”

“But you won’t hurt me.”

Sandor looked at her, deep into her eyes, and Sansa felt the smallest flicker of hope. He brought his face closer to hers, so close she could smell him: wine and sweat and _his_ smell. Normally Sansa would have been repulsed, but she found herself wanting more. She needed him, closer. She closed her eyes, preparing for another kiss. Sandor couldn’t put her – or himself – through the pain. He grabbed her face gently to make her open her eyes, and then he took a step back. “No, little bird, I won’t hurt you.”


	7. Chapter 7

Shae returned and brought back the rose oils, enough bottles so Sansa wouldn’t run out for quite some time. When Shae ran her bath, Sansa walked into the bathroom, undressed and got into the tub and sighed, trying not to break. She didn’t know when she had developed such feelings – strong feelings – for the Hound, for Sandor, but all she knew was that she wanted him, she felt for him, and he didn’t want her. She laughed, the result of too many emotions stirring inside her at once. She laughed because a few years ago, she wouldn’t have even looked at a man such as Sandor twice. She’d have been disgusted by his form, not dreaming about it. Now though, he was more than just her future husband’s bodyguard, definitely more than just ‘the Hound’. But he had said no, and so she had to realise and understand that…

“My Lady, what is it?”

Sansa hadn’t realised she’d been crying until Shae bent down next to the tub and dabbed at her face with a washcloth. Sansa sniffed, shaking her head and looking at her maid through still-blurry eyes. “It’s nothing, I’m just being silly. A silly girl with stupid ideas in her head.”

“My Lady, can I help with anything? Tell me who has upset you, I’ll –”

“No, it’s nobody, I just… I feel so alone, sometimes. I miss my family. I miss my mother, and my father – and I miss my brothers, _all_ of them. I even miss Arya!” Sansa had originally said this to cover up the real truth about Sandor, but now she found herself crying all over again, real tears once more over her family. “Please don’t cry,” Shae soothed, pouring more rose oil into the hot water. “It might not seem it now, but everything will work out for the best in the end. It will, I promise you.” Sansa forced a smile. “I hope you are right, Shae. I truly do… Right now it feels all is lost.”

Sansa asked her maid to leave her awhile to soak alone, and when the maid left more tears fell down her face.

When Sansa finally got out of the tub, which seemed like hours later, she called for Shae. Her maid didn’t answer, so she tried again. “Shae? Shae where are you? Shae?!”

The bathroom door opened, but nobody walked through. Sansa grew scared. Where had she gone? Breathing heavier, she called again, but not for her maid. “S-Sandor?”

A cough behind the open door answered. Sighing in relief but also feeling confused, Sansa frowned. “Where has Shae gone?”

“The Hand sent for her,” Sandor answered. He said no more.

“When will she return?”

“I don’t know, it wasn’t said. Shae told me to stay here until she got back.”

“Oh… very well.” Sansa hoped Shae would be a while, and at the same time she knew there was nothing she could do to change Sandor’s mind, and so also hoped Shae would return soon to save her from more torment. Sansa got out of the tub, dried herself and dressed in her grey dress. She hadn’t worn this in some time, but speaking of her family before had made her miss Winterfell more than she had ever done. When she entered the main room of her chambers, she found Sandor, sat in the green chair, drinking a cup of wine. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all,” she said, trying to keep her tone level.

“Don’t worry, little bird, it’s not wine. It’s water.”

“Alright.”

No more was said.

Sansa took to her sewing, sitting on the ledge by the window across the room, and Sandor stayed in his chair. She focused hard on the stitches, making sure they were perfect. Sansa knew they were, of course, but still. This was giving her an excuse not to look at Sandor. She could feel his eyes on her, but she didn’t chance it.

Hours passed them by, silence a constant companion. The sky grew darker, the stars shone, the moon replaced the sun, a cold chill swallowing the warm breeze of the afternoon. Sansa shivered.

“Do you want me to fetch you a blanket?” Sandor asked, finally breaking the silence.

“No, I’m fine, thank you.” Sandor huffed his reply.

Shae had been gone hours, and Sansa wondered where she had gone.

“I told you, she’s with the Hand.”

“Yes, but I wonder _why_ ,” she said. “What would Tyrion want with Shae?”

Sandor blinked at Sansa, wondering how she could be so pure. On one hand he could understand it, she truly was a precious little flower, but on the other hand Cersei must have poisoned her innocence at some point during her time here at King’s Landing. Sandor debated with himself whether he should tell her…

“Oh, young Stark,” Sandor sighed, eyes soft on her face. “Do you know how the world works?” Sansa frowned, and he continued, “You know your maid is… a whore, right?”

“Never!” Sansa gasped, shocked, face flushing. “Shae is my maid.”

“Very well she may be _your_ maid, but I know what she truly is. The Hand is no stranger to girls like her, and this one seems to have him enchanted.”

“That’s crazy,” Sansa said. “But… say you were right, not that I believe you… why wouldn’t she tell me?”

“Trust me, Sansa, sometimes it’s best not to tell people anything. It’s dangerous. The more people that know things, the bigger the problem. Everybody has secrets, and it’s telling people these secrets that get people killed.”

Sansa didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t. She went back to her sewing, staring out of the window.

Sandor stared at her, and wondered what she was thinking about. Seeing her now, so innocent, so fragile, he truly saw her as a little bird, stuck in her cage.

“Say little bird,” he said. She turned her head to look at him. “I haven’t heard you sing in a while.”

“I don’t know any songs,” she said sadly. “Not anymore.”

Sandor didn’t quite know what to expect, but the sinking feeling in his stomach was definitely not what he had expected. His face fell, as did Sansa’s, and he wished with all his might he could cheer her up, make her happy. He wanted nothing more than to see her smile.

More silence.

And then, “Sandor, I –” Sansa had been looking at her sewing work when she had spoken, and she noticed the room had gone quiet. When she raised her head to look over at Sandor, she jumped back on the window ledge. Sandor was standing right next to her. She dropped her needles in shock, and he smiled at her and picked them up. “Steady now, little bird…”

Sandor was so close. Sansa could smell him again. He didn’t smell of sweat this time, but he smelled of his smell, the indescribable, addictive scent that Sansa loved so much. She swallowed hard and stood up. He looked at her for a few seconds, up and down, eyes devouring her whole body, lingering on her face, black eyes dancing with blue. “This dress,” he said.

“It’s… it’s my Winterfell dress,” she replied, finding herself breathing heavy. “I –”

“I saw you wearing it the first day in Winterfell,” he said. Sansa felt her heart do a flip. That had been a considerable time ago, how had he remembered?

“Yes,” she replied.

“You looked nice.” _Fuck it,_ he thought, _fuck them – fuck them all_. He had made his decision.

“Thank y –”

“Sansa, you looked beautiful. You look beautiful now.”

Sansa felt her breathing slow, almost stop, and she stared up at him, happy tears brimming her eyes. She hadn’t realised these were the words she had been waiting to hear from him. “S-Sandor, I –”

“Of course I want you,” he breathed, pulling her to him. “You must know I want you. It’s not ideal, not appropriate, this could be classed as treason, I’m taking the King’s property, but –”

“No,” she said, reaching out and pressing a delicate finger to his lips. This made him shiver and sent him hard in the same instant. “I haven’t been the King’s property ever. And even if I ever was, I’m not anymore. My heart is yours, Sandor Clegane.” With that, they reached for each other at the same time and their mouths met, tongues dancing. Sansa panted, a tiny moan escaping her lips, and Sandor silenced her once again by crushing his lips onto hers. Gods, he was hard, and once more Sansa felt the hard bulge press against her stomach. She wanted him – properly.

“S-Sandor,” she breathed, breaking away. “I’m to remain a maid for Joffrey, but I want you, I –”

“Little bird,” he panted, “I won’t take you. Not your maidenhead. There are other ways…”

Sansa was intrigued. She had only thought of one way a man and a woman could love each other physically… “How?”

“I won’t do this unless you truly want it,” he said. He was rock hard, and even so, he wouldn’t have touched her again if she had wished it. She shook her head and pressed their bodies closer, arms wrapping around his shoulders and neck. “I want you, Sandor. Show me…”

With her consent, his mind was made up. First, however, he went and bolted her door, ensuring all the locks were secure. He knew Shae wouldn’t be returning until the morning, and Joffrey and Ser Merryn were busy elsewhere, nobody else would care to come knocking, which gave them plenty of time…

Sandor turned round and saw that Sansa had moved to the bed. She was sat on the edge, and she looked nervous. He joined her. “Please tell me,” he said softly, trying to be as caring as possible. “If you don’t wish to do this, I –”

“No, I do,” she said, trying to sound calm. “I truly do.”

With that, Sandor reached for Sansa and kissed her roughly. He was still hard, and Sansa accidentally dropped her hands, causing them to fall on his breeches – feeling that bulge. Sandor locked his eyes onto Sansa’s. Like before, Sansa had felt her smallclothes grow wet. Her face flushed, but she kept her gaze with Sandor and waited for him.

“Touch it,” he said, demanding but gentle. He didn’t want to keep asking Sansa questions, but he asked with his eyes. When she didn’t hesitate, he took it as a good sign. Hands fumbling, Sansa’s fingers shook as she unlaced his breeches and gently pulled them down. Sansa had never seen a man’s penis before, and she was fascinated to see what it really looked like. Sandor wasn’t short of anything – anyone could have guessed that from the sheer size of the rest of his anatomy – and Sansa felt her eyes grow wide. Sandor stole a glance down at her and smirked at her face. Sansa couldn’t believe she was doing this, but she knew she definitely did not want to stop. “Put your hand around it, move it up and down…”

Obediently, Sansa touched it, moving it up and down. She was timid, and moved her hand slowly. Sandor could feel her hands were still shaking, so he bent down and kissed her on the mouth. He moaned deep, and this made Sansa notice her smallclothes were growing wetter. She gulped and licked her lips, and Sansa felt Sandor’s… cock twitch in her hand. After a short while, Sansa begin to experiment and she switched the pace in which she felt him. She started off slow again, and then moved her hand up and down his shaft quicker and quicker. Sandor was impressed, considering as she had never so much as looked at a cock before this day. He was breathing heavy, and the sight of her touching him was driving him crazy. As the arousal reached Sansa deeper, she moaned and bit her lip, looking embarrassed. This was more than enough, and he felt his release building. He gently put one hand over hers and helped her move up and down faster, rougher, and just before he came he took his own hand away and watched as Sansa saw him cum, looking interested at the white liquid that had spilled onto her fingers. Catching his breath again, Sandor kissed Sansa and bit her bottom lip gently. This caused her to moan, and he stood up and went to get a cloth for her to wipe her fingers. When he returned, however, he was shocked when he saw her licking one of her fingers – licking him off her. He felt his cock twitch again. This was completely erotic to Sandor, and he decided it was her turn to have some pleasure.

He joined her on the bed again and looked deep into her eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she smiled, nodding her head and looking up at him. Her cheeks were flushed, and she had never looked more beautiful. He noticed she still had some of his seed on her right hand, and when he offered her the towel she shook her head and sucked it off, looking right at him as she did so. Sandor breathed deeply and let out a low breath that was almost a growl. “Sansa… if you still want to, I want to pleasure you.”

She cocked her head to one side. “But my maid –”

“Not that way,” he said. “Like you just used your hands on me, I want to do the same to you. If you –”

“Yes!” she breathed, hoping she didn’t sound too wanton.

With her say so, Sandor lay Sansa down gently on the bed, on her back, and he lay on top of her. He kissed her for a few moments, switching from gentle and slow to quick and more heated, using tongue and not using tongue. He moved his mouth to her ear and he gently kissed and nibbled on it, causing Sansa to moan and pant, breathy little sounds that were pure heaven to Sandor. He kissed her neck, and Sansa’s smallclothes were so wet now. Sandor asked her to stand, and he gently unzipped her dress and Sansa let it fall to the floor. Respectfully, he picked it up and laid it down on the green chair. He had done this because first of all he wanted her as naked as possible, and two, if he carried on he’d be climaxing again, and he didn’t want to spoil her favourite dress.

Seeing Sansa stood before him, naked, her form perfect and flushed, he felt like he was in heaven. He didn’t know which one of Sansa’s stupid Gods had allowed him this favour, but he found himself wanting to thank them, even if he didn’t believe. He grabbed her hips and pulled her back onto the bed. Her breasts were firm and round, and he gently played with one of her nipples, feeling it grow hard at his touch. The other one grew stiff of its own accord, and he gently took her left breast into his mouth, sucking gently and flicking his tongue over her already hard nipple. Sansa moaned, no sound just little hitches of breath, and she was fisting his hair. She suddenly stopped him, placing a gentle hand on his face, and he mistook her. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I –”

“No, not that,” she breathed, sitting up. She tugged at his tunic. “Please, I want to feel your skin against mine. Please, take it off.”

He hesitated. He had grown up learning to accept himself, scars and all, but would Sansa still want him when she saw his chest?

“Little bird, I’m – I’m horrible,” he said. “I’m too ugly for you.”

“No,” she breathed. “Sandor, you’re perfect. I want you. I want to see you – all of you. You’ll never be ugly for me.”

Sandor didn’t need telling twice. He grew warm with Sansa’s kind words. His breeches had been down by his ankles anyway, but he removed his tunic and rejoined Sansa. The heat of their bodies pressed together was incredible, and Sansa was turned on once more. True to her word, she didn’t even flinch as his scarred chest pressed against her precious body. Sansa was lying on her back, and Sandor kissed her neck, her breasts and then slid down her body, kissing each inch of bare skin his mouth could reach. As he grew nearer to her most sensitive area, Sansa began to breath heavier and heavier. He looked back up at her and waited for that approving look in her eyes, and once he got it he touched her. Gently, he kissed her inner thighs. He stroked circles, each circle getting closer to her middle, and he could both see and smell that she was ready for him. Gently, he moved his finger, just one for now, and ever so slightly touched her with it. He didn’t touch her clit, he just touched her outer lips, feeling the slick folds. She panted, breathing, moaned. “Sandor…”

That encouraged him, and he placed his finger at her entrance. Slowly, he pushed it deeper, careful not to go to deep in case he hurt her. Gods, she was tight. Sandor couldn’t remember the last time he had been with a woman as tight. Sandor felt her contract around his finger as it went deeper inside her, and he took it out. Sansa felt empty, and she panted at him. “More… please.”

Sandor reinserted his finger, and once she had relaxed around him, he pumped it in and out.

“Oh, Gods, Sandor!” she moaned, writhing around him. He saw she had her eyes closed shut, her mouth was opened and she was grabbing at the sheets. He continued this for a while, feeling her grow wetter with each finger movement, and when he added a second one she moaned so loud he had to quickly silence her with a kiss. He was shocked the people in Winterfell hadn’t heard her. When she was wet enough for his satisfaction, he removed both his fingers. Then it was time. Her clit had grown with her mounting arousal, and as his fingers touched it she shuddered and thrashed her head against her pillows. She panted continuously, moaning and sighing his name. It took no more than a few seconds for her to climax, soaking his fingers. When she had peaked, he slid back up the bed to meet her and they kissed, both of them spent.

“Sandor,” she panted. “That… was… wow.”

“I know, little bird. I know.”

They both dressed, and spend the rest of the evening in each other’s arms. Sandor still couldn’t believe this was all happening. Sansa had fallen asleep, her head resting against Sandor’s chest, and she couldn’t remember when she had last been this content. Who’d have known that the little bird would find such comfort and happiness in the arms of the Hound?


	8. Chapter 8

The next few weeks were hell for Sansa, in more ways than one. Joffrey was as cruel as ever, and he was growing angrier by the day. Sansa now sported a bruised arm from Ser Merryn’s constant vicious grip, and her lip had been bust more times than she could remember. Her brother Robb and his army were growing closer to King’s Landing, ready to wage war, and Joffrey’s uncle, Stannis Baratheon, his father’s younger brother, had joined in the fight against the new king. Stannis claimed he was the rightful heir to Westeros, and it was said he had joined forces with priestesses and pirates to fatten his army. This hadn’t best pleased Joffrey, and apparently it had been Sansa’s fault – she took the hit at Joffrey’s command. He was storming around the throne room, with only Sansa, Ser Merryn, Sandor and Cersei present. “My love,” said the Queen, walking towards her son, “your uncle is a traitor. When he is upon our gate we shall give him a choice: he can bend the knee to you, or he can die.”

“No!” Joffrey roared, pushing her away. The Queen had gone to stroke his blonde hair, but Joffrey snarled and stopped her, looking utterly horrified. “He doesn’t have a choice. I’ll welcome him with a red smile. I’ll kill the old bastard myself.” Sansa thought this was highly unlikely – Joff had never been a fighter, everyone knew it. He liked to boast and strut, but apart from his crossbow, which he only used to attack defenceless animals and frightened working girls and poor peasant folk, Joffrey was as useless with a sword as Arya was with a sewing needle.

“Mother, leave now. I have some business to attend to with my Lady, and you are not required for such an occasion.” At this, Sansa’s heart stopped. Her eyes quickly glanced to Sandor. His stomach had tightly knotted at Joffrey’s words, and he felt sick with worry. The stupid little prick of a King was evil and capable enough of putting her through hell, and Sandor was sadly confident that hell was what was about to be delivered. Cersei didn’t even look at Sansa as she strode past, head held high although everyone knew she wasn’t best pleased with being dismissed. When the Queen had left, doors shut and guarded, Joffrey turned to Sansa and that familiar sick smile was back on his lips. “My good Lady,” he said without an ounce of love. “We are soon to be married. How do you feel?”

“I look forward to it with all my heart, Your Grace,” Sansa said, looking in his eyes. She didn’t even try to sound sincere anymore. Everyone knew the love that they once had was gone. Cersei had summoned Sansa a few nights ago. “Little dove,” she had said, pretending to care through her voice. “It is not ignorant to me that you no longer love my son.”

“I love Joffrey with all my –”

“Very well played, little dove,” the Queen had interrupted, sipping at her wine. “But mark me as no fool. I have had experience in many things during my lifetime, Sansa, and noticing when a woman is no longer in love is a special talent of mine. One of many. You may no longer love my son, but that matters not. You do not need love for a marriage. As long as you marry him, and have his children, all will be well. You will not love the King, but any princes and princesses you make with him, those you will love without a doubt. The children, always. The man, that is irrelevant.” Sansa didn’t bother replying. The thought of marrying Joffrey made her sick, and although one day she longed to be a mother, bearing beautiful highborn children, the thought of her having children with _him,_ with Joffrey… it made her want to throw herself from the highest tower of the Red Keep.

“… did you hear that, my Lady?”

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Sansa replied, realising she hadn’t been paying attention. For this, Ser Merryn’s fists danced with her face, cutting her lip again. The strike was painful, hard, but Sansa never winced, made no verbal sign of discomfort. She didn’t want to give Joffrey or Ser Merryn the satisfaction.

Sandor had remained by Joffrey’s side, but the temptation to murder him grew stronger each time he looked at Sansa. It made Sandor so angry, he didn’t think Joffrey deserved to look at Sansa. He didn’t deserve her at all, in any sense. Since that night in her chambers, the second time, which had been near a month ago, they hadn’t been alone together since. Sandor knew this had been torture for both of them. Each time Sansa had been called to court by Joffrey, and had stood and got accused, beaten and humiliated, Sandor wanted nothing more than to kill every man who had laughed at his little bird, slaughter those who had touched even a hair of hers, then go and wrap his arms around her, saving her and taking her somewhere safe.

Sansa felt the same – each time she was forced in front of the court by her betrothed, and was beaten relentlessly by his other guards, she looked for the eyes of his one true guard, the Hound, and sad eyes met his steel ones. She knew he couldn’t do anything without getting himself killed, and Sansa understood this. She knew Sandor blamed himself for not acting when she was attacked, but Sansa didn’t hate him at all. How could she?

“I said,” Joffrey said, huffing in frustration, “as we are soon to be married… you already have your clothes for the wedding _night_ –” he winked at her and sniggered along with Ser Merryn – “but we need something for you to wear before then.”

“Your Grace,” Sansa began, “a kind offer, but I have my cl –”

“It wasn’t an ‘offer’,” he spat, his face close to hers. “I want you in a new dress.” He placed his arm on her collarbone, horrible hot fingers, and stroked across, then down, resting his hand on her right breast. He squeezed, hard, and Sansa gasped in pain. “You are to be my Queen, and Queen of Westeros. I want all of your Winterfell clothes burned. I will have no traitor cloth in my kingdom!” Joffrey stopped squeezing but his hands remained on her breast. He said nothing, he did nothing, he just stood, hands on her breasts, and stared at her – straight in her eyes. Sansa felt incredibly uncomfortable, and lowered her eyes to the ground. “No, little bitch!” he snapped. His fingers grabbed her face roughly and lifted it back up. He held her face in his hands, held it close so they were practically nose-to-nose, and he made her stand and stare into his eyes. Sansa didn’t understand why he was doing this, but she knew it was sick and not an act of love in the slightest. Ser Merryn and the Hound stood and watched. Sandor felt his blood boiling.

Joffrey forced his lips onto Sansa’s, and kissed her roughly, although not in the rough way Sandor had done. Sansa let a tear roll down her cheek. When Joffrey pulled away, he slapped her behind and walked over to Ser Merryn. Sansa tried to keep calm, blinked away the tears. She stood tall, trying to act strong. “Undress the little bitch, let’s see what she’s hiding under those rags” Joffrey ordered. Not to Ser Merryn. To the Hound – to Sandor.

Sandor froze for a split second, and then he turned to look at Joffrey. “Your Grace? The Lady’s honour –”

“I don’t give a fuck about her _honour_ , dog,” Joffrey said, looking at Sandor with disgust. “Go and take her dress off. Do you dare defy your King?!”

Sandor wanted to say yes, he did dare defy the bastard. He wanted to slice Joffrey in two, he wanted to cut his head off and send it to the Queen, along with Ser Merryn’s. But that wouldn’t do himself, or Sansa for that matter, any good. So, instead, he replied, “No, Your Grace. As you wish.”

Sandor hated himself with each step he took, bringing him closer to Sansa. As he was taller than her, when he reached her, he quickly whispered “I’m sorry, little bird. I’ll be gentle. I’m sorry…” Sansa smiled up at him, only for a split second, but her eyes continued. She didn’t blame him, they both knew that. This wasn’t Sandor’s doing, it was Joffrey’s.

Joffrey and Ser Merryn had walked closer too, so they could see better. “Get on with it, dog.” Biting his tongue from his true feelings, he asked, “What do you want me to take off?”

“Her disgusting dress.”

Sandor walked so he was standing behind Sansa, and his fingers went to her bodice. He began to unlace it, slowly. When he was halfway, Joffrey stopped him. “Dog, I’ve never known you to be gentle. Who cares about being slow? Rip the fucking thing from her body.” Sandor reminded himself to throttle Joffrey when he was next sleeping, and roughly he ripped the laces from the bodice and then threw the bodice itself onto the floor of the throne room. He grabbed a sleeve of the dress, near the top, and tugged. The material ripped, which was music to the King’s ears. The dress was old, one of Sansa’s favourites, and it tore with ease. Soon layers were unfolding of their own accord, and when the main body stretched and ripped, it fell from Sansa’s delicate body and pooled around her feet. Sansa’s face flushed, now only in the slip she wore underneath and her smallclothes. Sansa felt her nipples began to stiffen from the cold exposure, and she looked straight ahead, staring into oblivion. “Well done, dog.” Sandor looked at Joffrey, and when the King said nothing he went to walk away, back to the King’s side. “Not quite yet, dog. My lady is still overdressed…”

“Your Grace, no, please –” Sansa begged. “I –”

“Hold your tongue!” Ser Merryn scolded.

“My sweet, sweet Lady,” Joffrey said. “If you do not wish to be stripped further, you must suffer a forfeit. A fate worse than being naked in front of three men.” _One man and two rats_ , Sansa thought. “Do you wish to be naked in front of three men?”

“No. No, Your Grace…”

“Then it is decided. You must suffer the forfeit.”

It was quiet for a moment, the cogs of Joffrey’s poisoned mind ticking. Sansa shivered, and Joffrey surprised everybody when he ordered Ser Merryn to cover her. Ser Merryn glared at Sansa as he took a cloak and threw it over Sansa, who quickly fastened it around herself. “I have decided. You can wear all the cloaks you wish, my Lady. No amount of clothes could save you from what is to come. Dog.”

Both Sandor and Sansa’s froze. “Dog,” Joffrey said. “Come here.”

Sandor was already right next to Joffrey, but he walked so he was standing before the King. “Gods, you are ugly. You shall be my Lady’s punishment. Hound, kiss my Lady.”

“Your Grace?”

“No mortal should ever suffer the punishment of kissing a man such as you,” Joffrey said cruelly. “Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell forced to kiss a beast such as you? My my.” Joffrey’s face was painted with a sick, devious smile. Sansa could have smiled herself, as this was the best punishment she had ever been faced with. It was dangerous, she’d have to make it seem like she was repulsed, but Joffrey had no idea…

Gulping silently, Sansa’s eyes met with Sandor’s. He had that old look back on his face – that look that could wound a man for staring too long – and he walked to Sansa with big, heavy footsteps. He whispered no words, his eyes were not soft, his face was not loving. He grabbed her and kissed her, rough as Joffrey had done. Unlike when Joffrey had done, this kiss was heavenly flesh on Sansa’s and her heart sang. She tried to pull away, making a show of it – after all, that was what Joffrey had intended, why deny the wants of the King? – and she flapped her hands, trying to push him away. Joffrey was positively glowing, Ser Merryn was torn between looking horrified and pleased. “Sort her out, dog!” Joffrey called. Sandor gripped Sansa’s hands in one of his own, his grip tight and strong, and he broke away long enough to growl in her face before kissing her again. Sansa accidentally let out a moan, and for this Sandor broke away and struck her, only once, hands grazing her cheek. It was intentional, but the hit had been a lot harder than he had planned. He looked into the little bird’s eyes and saw they were watering. “Well done dog, you’ve made the bitch cry!” Joffrey was clapping. “I think my Lady has suffered enough by you for the time being. You may come in useful again. Dog, with me. Merryn, make sure she goes back to her chambers. I’m done with her now.”

“Little bird?”

It was dark now, long hours had passed since the throne room kiss of the morning. Sansa’s face had slowly bruised over the course of the day, and where Sandor had struck her was a small little cut above her left eye. She hadn’t blamed Sandor, again he had been ordered to, but the spot on her face was extra sensitive and sore to touch. Sansa knew exactly why Sandor had struck her – she’d accidentally moaned. She couldn’t help herself, she had craved his lips for so long, her punishment had been a dear gift and she got carried away. If Joffrey had heard, or realised, both of their heads would have been on spikes by now. Sandor had done it to save her; to save them.

Sansa had been in the Godswood, praying, and was on her way back. She had gone with a guard, at the order of Joffrey, but once she was back within the walls of the Red Keep he had disappeared. Sansa knew her way back to her chambers by now, after all she had made this same journey countless times before, and she was quite sure she was capable of returning by herself. She did feel slightly on edge, however, being in the dark, walking the corridors by herself. Although she had been here a good while now, King’s Landing was not her home, and she knew there were enemies within the walls that would hurt, rape, kill her without a thought. Dwelling on those thoughts, her heart began to race and she walked quicker. Through her panic, she had got herself lost. The corridor she was now walking down was unfamiliar… she turned around and went to walk back the way she came, and she wasn’t looking in front of her…

“Little bird?”

She looked up. Sandor. He had been on his way back from the tavern. He had drunk far too much, even by his standards. He wanted to drink enough to make him forget that he struck his little bird that morning. It had almost worked, but not as much as he had needed. Now he was faced with seeing her again, he felt awful once more. His eyes found the cut, still red and shining, and he growled at himself. “Stupid man, stupid dog.”

“Hey,” Sansa said softly. “Listen to me, I don’t blame you. Today was horrible, but we both knew you had no choice.”

“I am sorry,” he sighed. “Little bird, what in Seven Hells are you doing down here?”

“I don’t even know where ‘here’ is,” she replied. “I was in the Godswood, praying, and then my guard walked me back into the castle walls, but then he vanished before I could realise, and then I got worried and lost my way.”

Sandor was looking down at Sansa and he felt a soft smile form on his face. Quickly, it vanished before she saw. “Oh, my little bird, come on.”

“Where are we, just out of curiosity?”

“The guard’s chambers,” he laughed. “We’re standing outside my chamber.” Sansa gulped.

“We are?”

“We are.”

“May I see?”

“Why would a Lady want to see a dog’s kennel?” he asked.

“Hush now,” she smiled. “I’d just like to see…”

“It’s not very wise,” he replied. “If anyone caught us –”

“Make sure the door is locked.”

Sandor shook his head at Sansa, but one look into her big blue eyes had him opening his chamber door. He suddenly felt a little embarrassed. His purse was never short, his chamber nothing to be ashamed of, but this was a Lady – his Lady? He didn’t want her to think he lived… in a way that wouldn’t suit her.

“It’s… it’s normally not too bad,” he said for no reason in particular. He’d shut the door behind them and was talking quieter. “I have the things I need –” he pointed as he said – “I have my sword, and my wine, and my armour, and my clothes and my boots and my –”

“Bed,” Sansa said, almost a breath instead of a sound.

“Yes, and a bed.”

His eyes met hers and he shook his head at once. “Now, now, little bird.”

“It’s very charming,” Sansa said politely. Sandor smiled at her.

“I’m sure… Come on, you’ve had your look. I’m taking you back to chambers.”

“Only if you promise to stay with me awhile.”

“Sansa, I can’t –”

“Oh but you can!” she persisted. “The King never comes to my chambers, ever. The Queen wouldn’t bother, and nobody else bothers me either. My maid Shae is…”

“With the Hand,” Sandor grimaced. Sansa’s face made him laugh. “Come on, my Lady, we’re leaving.”

They walked out of Sandor’s chambers and down the corridors, up steps, down steps, round corners and along more corridors. During their journey, Sandor walked right next to Sansa, and once or twice their hands brushed against each other, which gave Sansa butterflies. It was quiet within the Red Keep, their footsteps soft but leaving echoes. When they reached Sansa’s chambers, they turned to face each other. The corridors had been deserted, and this area was as quiet as the rest of the castle had been. “Please, just… stay.”

“I can’t…” Sandor began. He saw his little bird’s face fall. “… stay for long.” She looked up at him, blue eyes glittering, and she smiled. They quickly entered the chamber, and Sandor made sure the door was bolted. Sansa noticed all the windows had already been shut, the drapes clouding them, but she went and checked them all, just to be sure. She met him back in the main room of her chamber, and they reached for each other.

Unlike earlier, when it had been forced, now it was free and their mouths met, tongues dancing, hands feeling and stroking. He ran his fingers through her auburn hair, which was now loose and as it used to be in Winterfell, and she placed a hand either side of his face and stroked, unflinching as she touched his scars. As he kissed her more, a little moan escaped her mouth. He didn’t strike her, he held her tighter and poured as much of himself as he could into the kiss. Sansa’s heart was beating so fast. Sandor drove her crazy. She knew her Septa would have fainted if she’d have even heard about what they were doing – about what they had done ­– and Sansa giggled. She felt lightheaded, and she continued laughing as she fell back onto her bed. Sandor stood on the spot, unsure whether he should act. When Sansa patted the empty space next to her, he walked over to her and joined her. They were both sitting, and Sandor picked Sansa up and sat her on his lap, placing a leg either side of his waist. Sandor watched as Sansa’s eyes grew wide with excitement. He reached for her again and they kissed for a few minutes more. This kiss was wild, passionate and rough. Sansa had remembered from last time, she was leading the kiss, and her hands never left his face as their tongues touched, lips moving against each other. With the position they were in, Sansa felt her stomach flip when she felt the bulge in Sandor’s breeches. It touched her, although this time it wasn’t her stomach it was pressed against. Seeing her face turn to panic, Sandor kissed her cheek. “Don’t worry, little bird, we’re not going to do that. We won’t do anything, not tonight.”

Sansa prayed to all the Gods she didn’t sound wanton, but she asked, “Why not?”

“I didn’t think you wanted to.”

Sansa gave no verbal reply. Instead, she stood up and dropped to her knees. A most un-ladylike position. Her eyes never left Sandor’s as she unlaced his breeches and tugged them down, letting them drop to the floor. He was already hard, and this pleased Sansa. At once, she took him in her hands and began pumping up and down. Sandor grunted and held her gaze as her fingers worked around his shaft. He grew even harder with her delicate fingers around him, and Sansa pumped faster and faster. Sandor groaned again, growled her name. This made Sansa’s smallclothes grow wet, and as he grunted she matched it with her own tiny moans and sighs. “Is this good?” she asked innocently. “Gods… yes!” he replied. Soon, he was climaxing, covering her fingers as he had done before.

Sandor reached down and kissed Sansa on the mouth, his cock already beginning to harden again. “Would you like…?”

Sansa nodded and lay back on her bed. Sandor placed his finger at her opening, tearing off her smallclothes and not caring where they landed this time. Once she was naked, he inserted his finger, pushing it deep. She was tight as usual around his finger, and as she moaned he pumped his finger in and out, slowly to begin with. Her face flushed, the red glow spreading down to her neck and breasts. After a short while, he began to pump a little quicker, increasing his speed slowly. Soon, he was moving his fingers in and out of her very fast, and Sansa moaned and came over his hand. She was breathless, and as she went to sit up to kiss him, he touched that little nub that was especially sensitive and she crashed back down onto her pillow as a new wave of pleasure coursed through her body. When the pleasure had ebbed away, Sansa was left breathless and panting. She was still lying down, and she pulled Sandor towards her. They were both now lying down on Sansa’s bed, and Sansa found herself wishing it could always be like this. When she was with Sandor, she felt safe and protected. Defeating everything she had ever known or been taught, his rough form and disfigured face no longer sent her cold or made her scared and tremble with fear. Instead, she found herself seeing his face as nothing more than what it was: his face. No different from the other side. Sansa wanted to study each inch of him. When she was with him, when he towered over her, his heavy breathing, his sharp voice or the way he rasped when he laughed, he didn’t scare her. He might have been one of the most feared men in all of the Seven Kingdoms, and yet Sansa was unafraid. He was beautiful to her, and she knew she would never look at another man – not even the Knight of Flowers – for as long as she lived. Sansa didn’t understand it, but by some unknown force she had fallen in love with Sandor Clegane.


End file.
